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Including 

"The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell." 

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Price,  75  Cents. 


OUT  OF  HIS   HEAD, 


A  ROMANCE. 


There  was  something  strange,  people  whispered.     His  grand 
father  was  so  before  him.     It  runs  in  the  family. — Thackaray. 


EDITED    BY 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


NEW    YORK: 

Carleton,  Publisher,  413  Broadway. 

(LATE  KUDD  &  CAKLETON.) 
M  DCCC  LXII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by 

T.  B.  ALDRICH, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


XI.      THE    DANSEUSE. 


M801722 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE. 

I.  DR.    PENDEGRAST.      .  .„  _        .    ,       •            .11 

II.  BY    THE    SEASHORE.  .            .            .             .             18 

III.  THE    ESTRANGEMENT.  V      ,  "•            •            •       22 

IV.  A    CATASTROPHE.  .            i            .            ,            31 
V.  THE    FLIGHT.      .            .  .           »           .            .36 

VI.  TIRED    TO    DEATH.  «            •          ^            .            43 

VII.  AX   ARRIVAL.      .            .  .           .           ,            .49 

VIII.  DARK   DAYS.               .....  55 

IX.  AGNES.                    .            .  .            •           •            .65 

X.  THE    RED    DOMINO.  69 


XII.  A   MYSTERY.               .  .           .            .            91 

XIII.  THOU   ART    THE   MAN.  .           .                        .    102 

xiv.  PAUL'S  CONFESSION.  „       r.   '     •        .„     105 

XV.  A   LONG   JOURNEY.  .    114 


VI  CONTENTS. 

XVI.      OUT    OF    HIS    HEAD 118 

XVII.  BURNING    A    WITCH. 

XVIII.  TWO    HUNDRED    YEARS    OLD.        .            .  .    142 
NOTE 145 

PAUL  LYNDE'S  SKETCH  BOOK. 

PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE  PALM.  .        .        .     149 

A  WORD  FOR  THE  TOWN.      .         .  .         .         162 

MISS  HEPZIBAH'S  LOVER.          .  .        .        .178 

THE  LADY  WITH  THE  BALMORAL.  .        .        192 

THE  CUP  AND  THE  LIP.    .  206 


NOTE. 

The  manuscript  which  comprises  this  volume  was  found 
among  the  papers  of  the  late  Paul  Lynde,  and  placed  in 
my  hands,  by  the  publishers,  for  revision. 

It  is  usual  to  accompany  a  posthumous  work  with 
some  account  of  its  author  :  in  the  present  instance,  the* 
friends  of  the  writer  object  to  this,  and  I  am  permitted 
only  to  say  that  Mr.  Lynde,  —  personally  a  stranger  to 
me,  —  was  the  victim  of  an  hereditary  peculiarity,  which, 
increasing  with  his  years,  at  length  forced  him  to  retreat 
from  the  world,  to  one  of  those  beneficent  asylums  estab 
lished  for  such  unfortunates.  There  he  wrote,  dreamed, 
and  indulged  in  his  vagaries  to  the  end. 

"  And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or  less, 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  his  house. 
Himself,  too,  had  vrierd  seizures,  heaven  knows  what, 
On  a  sudden,  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day, 
And  while  he  walked  and  talked  as  heretofor* 
He  seemed  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts 
And  feel  himself  the  shadow  of  a  dream." 


NOTE. 


Of  this  Romance,  produced  under  such  unusual  cir 
cumstances,  it  is  not  my  province  to  speak.  The  reader 
himself  .will  see,  beneath  the  sombre  surface  of  the  wri 
ter's  words,  the  particular  humor  of  the  man. 


OUT  OF  HIS  HEAD. 


There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our  house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grandsire  burnt, 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold, 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should  know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that  one 
Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows,  and  to  fall. 

—  Tennyi 


OUT   OF  HIS   HEAD. 


CHAPTER  I. 


DR.  PEXDEGRAST. 

HAT  is  this,  Lynde  ?  " 

Dr.  Pendegrast  had  walked 
the  farther  end  of  my  room, 
|)  and  stood  looking  at  a  pale,  un- 
bloomed  flower  sealed  in  a  glass 
globe.  The  globe  rested  on  a 
slight  Gothic  pedestal,  and  was 
covered  by  a  yard  or  two  of 
gauze,  thrown  over  it  carelessly.  The  doctor  had 
drawn  aside  the  covering,  and  was  regarding  the 

flower  with  an  air  of  interest. 

"  That,"  said  I,  closing  one  finger  in  my  book, 
"  is  where  I  keep  the  soul  of  Cecil  Roylstone  — 
shut  up  in  the  calyx." 


12!  Out  of  Ids  Head, 

The  doctor  started. 

"  The  soul  - —  really  I  That  is  quite  odd,  now. 
You  never  told  me  of  this,  Lynde." 

Dr.  Pendegrast  is  a  physician  of  considerable 
repute  with  whom  I  have  recently  become  ac 
quainted.  A  singular  intimacy  has  sprung  up 
between  us.  Dr.  Pendegrast  labors  under  the 
delusion  that  he  is  treating  me  professionally  for 
some  sort  of  mental  disorder,  and  I,  indulging  the 
good-natured  whim,  throw  his  prescriptions  out  of 
the  window,  and  in  the  meantime  enjoy  un 
restrained  intercourse  with  the  doctor,  who  is  not 
only  a  skillful  practitioner,  but  a  thinker,  and  — 
what  is  seldom  the  case  with  thinkers  —  a  fine 
conversationalist. 

He  frequently  drops  in  to  spend  an  hour  with 
me,  and  appears  to  derive  much  satisfaction  in 
examining  the  microscopes,  galvanic  batteries, 
wooden  models,  and  various  knick-knacks  in  fluor 
spar  —  the  accumulation  of  years — with  which 
my  apartment  is  crowded.  The  place  has  quite 
the  air  of  a  miniature  museum. 


Out  of  his  Head,  13 

Dr.  Pendegrast  stood  looking  at  the  imprisoned 
flower  with  fresh  curiosity.  I  drew  my  chair 
nearer  to  the  fire,  and  fell  into  a  brown  study. 
The  doctor's  question  had  indirectly  suggested  to 
me  the  expediency  of  writing  out  the  odd  experi 
ences  of  my  life. 

There  comes  to  every  man,  sooner  or  later,  a 
time  when  he  pauses  and  looks  down  on  his  Past, 
regarding  it  as  an  existence  separate  from  himself. 
As  one  in  a  dream,  stands  beside  his  own  coffin, 
gazing  upon  his  own  features.  That  moment  of 
retrospection  was  mine. 

Dr.  Pendegrast  placed  the  tip  of  his  forefinger 
on  the  globe. 

"  And  who  is  Cecil  Roylstone  ?  " 

"  The  woman  I  loved,  long  ago." 

"Dead?" 

"  Many  years  since." 

The  doctor  mused. 

"  And  her  soul,"  you  say —  " 

"Passed    into    that    flower  the   day   she 
buried.'' 


14  Out  of  his  Head, 

"  But  the  flower,"  said  Dr.  Pendegrast,  stoop 
ing  down,  "  is  as  fresh  as  if  it  were  plucked 
yesterday." 

"  True.  By  a  process  well  known  to  chemists, 
•I  have  preserved  the  lily  in  its  original  freshness  ; 
even  the  dew  still  glistens  on  it.  See !  Cecil's 
breath  has  clouded  the  glass.  The  flower  is 
moving  !  Mute,  mute,  —  if  she  would  but  speak 
to  me  !  " 

"  And  you  really  think  this  pretty  world  is  in 
habited  by  a  spirit?  " 

"  There's  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it." 

"  Would  it  not  be  well,"  remarked  Dr.  Pende 
grast,  lifting  his  eyebrows  speculatively,  "  to  look 
into  this  ?  For  our  own  satisfaction,  you  know, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  spirit,  which  must  be  very 
uncomfortable  in  such  snug  quarters.  Suppose, 
for  instance,  we  take  a  peep  in  at  the  petals  ?  " 

"  Not  for  worlds  !  Our  grosser  sense  would  fail 
to  perceive  the  soul  within.  I  have  thought  of  it. 
The  thin  shell  which  separates  us,  has  baffled  my 
endeavor  to  reach  her.  Once  I  dared  to  dream  it 


Out  of  his  Head.  15 

possible  to  hold  communication  with  Cecil — by 
means  of  a  small  magnetic  telegraph,  my  own 
invention.  But  the  experiment  threatened  to  an 
nihilate  the  flower.  Since  then,  it  has  lain  un 
touched,  sealed  hermetically  from  the  air,  in  its 
transparent  prison." 

Dr.  Pendegrast  smiled. 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  doctor,"  said  I, 
sharply. 

"  Not  I !  It's  the  most  interesting  circumstance 
that  ever  came  under  my  observation." 

44  No  doubt  it  sounds  strangely  to  you,  doctor. 
I  have,  before  now,  encountered  people  who 
thought  me  a  little  out  on  the  subject,  and  said  so 
flatly." 

"  They  were  very  injudicious." 

"  To  be  sure  ;  but  I  always  observed  that  they 
were  persons  of  inferior  intellect  —  believing  only 
what  they  could  comprehend,  they  were  necessarily 
contracted.  To  metaphysicians,  students  of  life 
and  death,  the  facts  which  I  could  unfold  relative 


16  Out  of  his  Head. 

to  this  flower  and  other  matters,  would  afford 
material  for  serious  speculation." 

41 1  believe  you,"  said  Dr.  Pendegrast. 

"  And  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  give  the  scien 
tific  world  the  benefit  of  my  memoirs.  Indeed,,  it 
is  a  part  of  my  destiny  to  do  so." 

"  You  delight  me,"  said  Dr.  Pendegrast.  "  Do 
it  at  once.  It  will  be  a  healthful  relaxation.  You 
are  working  too  hard  on  that  infernal  machine  of 
yours." 

"  You  mean  the  MOON-APPARATUS." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  meant  the  MOON-AP 
PARATUS." 

"  I  will  commence  my  memoirs  to-morrow." 

"  And  I  shall  hold  it  a  privilege,"  said  the 
doctor  courteously,  drawing  on  his  glove,  "to 
follow  the  progress  of  your  work." 

"  You  shall  do  so." 

Dr.  Pendegrast  took  his  leave. 

"  O,  Lynde,  Lynde  !  "  I  heard  him  exclaim  as 
he  went  down  stairs. 

That  man  appreciates  me. 


Out  of  his  Head.  17 

A  week  has  elapsed  since  this  conversation  oc 
curred,  and  I  still  linger  at  the  threshhold  of  my 
confessions.  I  half  dread  to  ring  up  the  curtain  on* 
such  a  sorrowful  play  as  it  is,  for  the  dramatis 
personae  are  the  shades  of  men  and  women  long 
since  dead.  Their  graves  lie  scattered  over  the 
world,  north,  south,  east,  and  west.  It  seems 
almost  cruel  to  bring  them  together  on  the  stage 
again.  Who  that  has  fretted  his  brief  hour  here 
would  care  to  return  ?  Yet  I  must  summon 
these  shadows,  for  a  moment,  from  the  dark. 


18  Out  of  Ms  Head, 


CHAPTER  II. 

BY  THE  SEASHORE. 

N  the  summer  of  18 —  I  occupied 
an  old  house  near  the  seashore,  in 
New  England.  The  beach,  a  mile 
off,  stretched  along  the  indented 
coast,  looking  as  if  it  were  an  im 
mense  mottled  serpent  that  had 
been  suddenly  petrified  in  the  midst 
of  its  writhings.  On  the  right,  a 
ruined  fort  stared  at  the  ocean,  over  the  chalky 
crags.  At  the  back  of  the  house  were  some  two 
hundred  acres  of  woodland,  moistened  here  and 
there  by  ponds  filled  with  marvellous  white  lilies. 
The  weather-beaten  roofs  and  steeples  of  the  town 
glanced  through  the  breezy  elm  trees  on  the  left ; 


Out  of  Ms  Head.  19 

while  far  away,  over  lengths  of  pastures  and  sullen 
clumps  of  pines,  Mount  Agamenticus  rose  up  like 
a  purple  mist. 

The  scenery  has  stamped  itself  into  my  brain  — 
the  desolate  fort,  staring  with  a  blind,  stunned 
look  through  rain  and  sunshine ;  the  merciless 
coast ;  the  ragged  ledges,  nurturing  only  a  few 
acrid  berries ;  the  forest  full  of  gloomy  sounds ; 
the  antique  spires  in  the  distance ;  and,  over  all, 
the  loose  gray  clouds. 

I  had  come  to  the  New  Hampshire  seaboard  for 
the  benefit  of  my  failing  health.  Having  spent 
the  greater  portion  of  my  life  in  an  inland  manu 
facturing  town,  than  which  nothing  could  be  more 
common-place,  the  wild  panorama  of  the  coast 
opened  on  me  like  an  enchanted  realm.  A  cold,  gray 
realm,  but  enchanted.  I  avoided  society.  The 
sea  and  the  shifting  clouds  were  society  enough. 
The  solitude  that  would  have  driven  most  men  to 
distraction,  was  pregnant  with  meaning.  It  left 
me  free,  for  once,  to  breathe,  and  think,  and  feel. 

At  night  I  wandered  along  the  beach,  watching 


20  Out  of  his  Head, 

the  points  of  light  that  dipt  and  rose  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  the  sails  that  shimmered  ghost-like,  for 
a  second,  in  the  offing,  and  vanished.  But  more 
than  all  I  brooded  over  the  broken  image  of  the 
moon  floating  on  the  water :  that  filled  me  like  a 
picture  by  Claude ;  it  led  me  into  a  region  of  new 
thought,  and  here  I  first  conceived  the  project  of 
of  my  MOON-APPARATUS,  which,  when  completed, 
will  dissolve  the  misty  theories  that  have  deluded 
man  for  the  past  five  centuries.  I  haunted  the 
seashore.  I  lay  on  the  rocks  from  sundown  till 
midnight,  shaping  the  vast  Idea  that  had  grown 
up  within  me. 

My  intercourse  with  the  village,  near  by,  was 
restricted  to  one  family  —  the  Roylstones.  I 
might  say  restricted  to  one  person ;  for  Captain 
Roylstone  was  always  at  sea ;  his  wife  had  long 
since  been  laid  at  rest  in  the  rustic  churchyard ; 
and  only  Cecil,  who  lived  with  an  elderly  com 
panion,  a  distant  connection,  I  believe,  represented 
the  family. 

How  we   met,  or  how  Cecil's   fate   and  mine 


Out  of  his  Head.  21 

became  irrevocably  linked,  seems  so  strange  and 
vague  to  me,  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  speak  of 
it.  It  was  this  woman's  melancholy  destiny  to 
love  me  :  it  was  mine  to  return  the  passion  a  hun 
dred  fold,  and  follow  her  to  the  very  margin  of 
that  mysterious  world  wherein  she  eluded  me. 
Wherein  she  still  eludes  me. 

Alas !  what  right  had  I  to  love,  knowing,  as  I 
have  known  from  boyhood,  the  doom  that  hangs 
over  my  head,  suspended  by  a  tenure  as  slight  as 
that  which  held  the  sword  of  Damocles  ? 

To-morrow  it  may  fall ! 

The  arrogant  retina  of  the  eye  sometimes  re 
fuses  to  give  back  the  image  it  has  received.  Dis 
solution  alone  can  break  the  charmed  picture  ; 
and  even  after  death,  objects  of  terror  and  beauty 
have  been  seen  to  fade  away  reluctantly  from  this 
magical  mirror.  I  have  read,  somewhere,  of  a 
German  oculist,  who  traced  the  murderer  of  a 
lady  in  Gottingen,  by  discovering,  at  a  post 
mortem  examination,  the  likeness  of  the  assassin 


m  Out  of  his  Head, 

photographed  on  those  curious  net-like  membranes, 
the  retinae. 

When  I  am  dead,  the  face  of  a  fair  woman  will 
be  found  indelibly  engraved  on  my  eyes  —  not  in 
faint  lines  and  curves,  but  sharply,  as  if  the  features 
had  been  cut  out  on  steel  by  the  burin  of  ^n  artist. 
Yet  I  can  but  poorly  describe  the  idyllic  grace  and 
beauty  of  Cecil  Roylstone. 

Her  hair  was  dark  brown,  and,  in  its  most 
becoming  arrangement,  drawn  into  one  massivs 
coil  over  the  forehead,  giving  her  brows  a  Greek-like 
stateliness.  Her  eyes  were  those  unusual  ojos 
verdes,  large  and  lucent,  which  the  Spanish  poets 
mention  as  being  the  finest  type.  The  mouth 
would  have  been  perfect,  but  for  a  slight  blemish, 
visible  only  at  times,  on  the  upper  lip.  Perhaps 
her  face  was  a  shade  too  pale,  for  perfection,  may 
be  too  pensive,  in  repose  —  but  how  can  I  write 
of  Cecil  as  a  mere  portrait,  when  she,  herself,  ir 
her  infinite  sweetness,  seems  to  pass  before  me ! 

Again  she  is  walking,  in  her  simple  white  dress, 
by  the  seaside.  The  moon  drifts  from  cloud  to 


Out  of  his  Head,  23 

cloud,  edging  the  gray  with  silver,  and,  far  off,  the 
sea  sparkles.  A  plain  gold  cross  on  her  bosom 
catches  the  moonlight.  The  salt  breeze  lifts  the 
braids  of  her  hair,  and  blows  back  the  folds  of  her 
dress.  I  sit  on  the  rocks  watching  her. 

Again  we  are  lounging  along  the  sunny  road, 
on  our  way  to  town.  It  is  an  afternoon  in  May ; 
the  trees  are  in  full  bloom,  peach  and  apple. 
Cecil  is  laughing,  with  an  accent  like  music.  I 
see  her  lissome  form  in  the  checkered  sunshine, 
her  feet,  tripping  on  in  front  of  me,  among  the 
blossoms.  I  hardly  know  which  are  the  blossoms. 
Now  she  is  walking  demurely  at  my  side,  her 
fingers  locked  in  mine,  and  the  sleepy  sea-port 
with  its  brown  roofs  and  whitewashed  chimneys, 
comes  out  distinctly  against  the  neutral  tint  of  the 
sky,  like  a  picture  on  a  wizard's  glass. 

Again  I  am  sitting  on  the  porch  of  the  old 
house,  dreaming  of  her.  I  hear  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  beating  on  the  dusty  road,  and  then 
Cecil  —  as  if  she  had  leaped  out  of  my  brain  — 
dashes  up  to  the  garden-gate,  on  the  alert  black 


24  Out  of  his  Head. 

mare  which  her  father  has  sent  home.  In  that 
sea-green  riding-habit  and  feather,  she  is  a  picture, 
I  take  it,  for  Memory  to  press  in  his  thumbed  and 
dog's-eared  volume.  I  pat  the  sleek  neck  of  the 
mustang,  as  I  speak  with  Cecil.  I  look  up,  and 
she  is  gone.  I  see  her  riding  madly  along  the 
orchard  walls,  shaking  down  the  blooms,  in  the 
sunset. 

Riding  away  from  me  ! 


Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER   III. 


THE  ESTRANGEMENT. 


E  were  unspeakably  happy 
in  that  dream  which  follows 
the  confessions  of  two  hearts 
each  all  in  all  to  the  other. 
yj  Our  formal  engagement  was 

V  — 

:'v  but  delayed  until  Captain 
Roylstone,  who  was  ma 
king  an  East  Indian  voy 
age,  should  return  and  sanction  it.  The  future 
lay  before  us  like  a  map  on  which  each  bright 
tint  melts  into  one  more  brilliant.  We  were 
wildly  happy ;  but  not  long. 

The    occult  power    that    moulds    my  thought, 
speaks  my  words,  and  even  times  the  pulsations  of 


26  Out  of  Ms  Head, 

my  heart,  glided  in  between  us.  We  had  been  en 
gaged  but  three  weeks,  when  I  became  assured 
that  Cecil  had  taken  a  sudden  aversion  to  me.  It 
was  evident  she  sought  to  avoid  our  usual  inter 
views  ;  and  when  we  met,  was  constrained  and 
absent-minded.  The  color,  what  little  she  had, 
shrunk  from  her  cheek  ;  the  touch  of  her  fingers 
was  chilly  and  nerveless.  When  I  questioned 
Cecil,  she  looked  at  me  wearily,  and  turned  away. 
Sometimes  with  an  impatient  gesture,  sometimes 
coldly. 

One  night  —  I  never  hear  the  monotonous  wash 
of  the  waves,  but  J  think  of  it,  —  we  sat  on  the 
rocks.  Cecil  wrapt  in  her  shawl.  It  was  Oc 
tober,  and  the  winds  were  growing  frosty.  One 
star,  in  a  stormy  cincture,  struggled  through  the 
dark.  The  sea  moaned,  as  it  moans  only  in 
autumn.  The  clouds  leaned  down,  hungry,  tragic 
faces,  listening.  The  landscape  seemed  cut  in 
granite,  sharp  and  gray.  No  color  anywhere. 
There  was  something  of  an  expression  of  human 


Out  of  liis  Head,  27 

despair  in  the  half  twilight  that  brooded  over  it. 
It  was  so  hopeless. 

Presently  the  moon  rose  to  the  surface  of  the 
water,  like  a  drowned  body,  bleached  and  swollen. 
It  distressed  me  ;  and  when,  at  length,  it  lifted  its 
full  disc  slowly  up  among  the  clouds,  I  felt  a 
sense  of  relief:  the  cool  clean  light  revived  my 
spirits,  like  a  draught  of  wine.  I  began  speaking, 
rapidly,  half  to  myself,  partly  to  Cecil.  I  forget 
the  train  of  reflection  that  led  to  it,  but,  at  last,  I 
touched  on  the  invention  of  the  MOOX-APPARATUS, 
to  which  I  had  recently  given  so  much  study. 

Then  Cecil,  who  had  been  sitting  silent  and 
motionless,  abruptly  bent  forward,  and  took  my 
face  between  her  hands. 

"  Poor  Paul  !  " 

She  drew  back,  then,  one  hand  resting  on  her 
lap,  inanimate,  like  a  sculptured  hand  I  had  seen 
somewhere. 

"  Cecil !  " 

She  turned  away  hastily. 

"  You  are  cruel,  Cecil." 


28  Out  of  Ms  Head, 

"  No.     Do  not  say  that.     I  —  I  suffer." 

And  she  uttered  a  low  moan,  like  a  child. 

"  Suffer  ?  " 

"Bitterly!  " 

"You  are  hiding  some  painful  news  from  me. 
What  is  it?" 

Cecil  made  no  reply  for  a  moment:  then  I 
heard  her  murmuring  to  herself, 

"  It  was  an  evil  day  when  we  met.  I  wish  it 
had  never  been." 

"  An  evil  day,  Cecil  ?  You  kill  me  with  your 
strangeness.  Your  very  breath  seems  to  freeze 
me." 

"  Let  it !  I  think  I  am  dying  —  it  is  so  sudden 
and  terrible  —  but  you  do  not  understand  me- — 
poor  Paul ! " 

"  What  is  sudden  and  terrible  ?  ' 

44  Nothing." 

My  fingers  sunk  into  her  arm  until  she  gave  a 
quick  cry  of  pain. 

44  Why  do  you  call  me  4  poor  Paul  ?  '  " 
44 1  — I  cannot  tell." 


Out  of  his  Head.  29 

"For  mercy's  sake,  Cecil,  say  one  word  that 
has  sense  in  it  —  if  you  have  any  love  left  for  me." 

Cecil  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck,  and 
locked  her  fingers,  holding  me  so. 

"  How  you  tremble,  child !  What  has  hap 
pened  to  trouble  you  ?  Something,  I  know  — 
your  father?  You  have  had  letters  from  him, 
and  he  is  sick  ?  Tell  me,  little  wife." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Cecil,  recoiling. 

For  an  instant  the  indistinct  blemish  on  her  lip 
glowed  warmly,  like  an  opal,  and  faded. 

"  No,  no,  no  ?  "  I  repeated  to  myself.  "  How 
strange  !  "  « 

Then  the  three  monosyllables  slipped  from  my 
mind,  and,  oddly  enough,  I  commenced  a  mental 
construction  of  the  MOON-APPABATUB,  forgetful 
of  Cecil  and  our  limited  world  of  sorrows. 

"  The  powerful  glasses,"  said  I  half  aloud, 
"  shall  draw  the  rays  of  the  moon  into  the  copper 
cylinders :  the  action  of  the  chemicals,  let  in 
through  the  valves  will  congeal  the  atomic  matter : 


30  Out  of  Ms  Head, 

then  comes  the  granulating  process ;  and  after  the 
calcina —  " 

"  Merciful  heaven !  "  cried  Cecil,  breaking  in 
on  me,  "  is  it  so  ?  I  have  waited,  and  hoped, 
and  prayed.  Paul,  look  at  me ;  take  me  in  your 
arms,  once,  and  kiss  me.  Look  at  me  long! 
Never  any  more  !  Poor,  poor  Paul.  O  misery ! 
that  I  should  so  love  a —  " 

With  this,  Cecil  tore  herself  away  from  me, 
and,  in  spite  of  my  cries,  fled  toward  the  town. 
She  melted  into  the  moonlight,  past  the  church 
yard,  and  was  gone.  What  could  it  mean  ? 

Then  the  terrible  truth  flashed  upon  me  — 
Cecil  had  lost  her  mind  * 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  31 


CHAPTER  IV. 
A  CATASTROPHE. 

T  is  well  that  providence  keeps  our 
destiny  under  lock  and  key,  dealing 
it  out  only  by  morsels.  The  whole 

of  it,  at  once,  would  kill  us.     Sup- 
) 
\pose  a  man,  verging   on  the  prime 

^of    life,    shouW    chance    to    come 
across    his   full-grown   Biography  ? 
It  would  not  be  pleasant  reading,  to 
say  it  mildly. 

I  walked  home  that  night,  bewildered.  The 
sky  was  blanched  with  incessant  lightning,  and 
dull  peals  of  thunder  broke  in  the  far  east,  like 
the  sound  of  distant  artillery.  There  was  a  fear 
ful  gale,  afterwards,  I  was  told.  A  merchantman, 


32  Out,  of  his  Head. 

with  all  on  board,  went  down  at  daybreak,  on  the 
shoals  off  Grosport  Light. 

Spiteful  drops  of  rain  whistled  by  me  before  I 
reached  the  door  of  my  isolated  abode.  I  hurried 
through  the  grape-arbor,  and  had  entered  the 
laboratory  on  the  ground-floor,  in  the  right  wing 
of  the  building,  when  an  accident  occurred  to 
which  I  cannot  even  now  refer  with  composure. 

When  I  reflect  on  the  months  of  wasting  toil  and 
the  lavish  outlay,  rendered  futile  by  a  moment's 
awkwardness,  I  am  again  plunged  into  despair. 

A  candle,  with  matches,  always  stood  on  the 
laboratory  mantle-piece,  for  my  convenience.  In 
searching  for  these  matches,  which  somebody  had 
removed,  I  inadvertently  came  in  contact  with  the 

MOON-APPARATUS. 

It  tottered  —  and  fell  with  a  crash  ! 

A  sulphuric  vapor  immediately  diffused  itself 
throughout  the  apartment,  followed  by  an  ex 
plosion  that  shook  the  house  from  garret  to  base 
ment.  With  the  flash  and  concussion,  a  keen 
pain  shot  through  my"  temples. 


Out  of  his  Head.  33 

Then  a  darkness  came  over  me. 

This  darkness  must  have  covered  a  period  of 
several  months ;  for  when  I  escaped  from  it,  there 
was  something  in  the  singing  of  birds,  and  the 
brushing  of  foliage  against  the  casement,  that  told 
of  spring.  I  lay  in  my  own  chamber,  and  an  old 
woman  was  killing  flies  with  a  silk  apron. 

"  What  is  the  time  —  of  year  ?  "  I  asked  faintly. 

The  woman  came  to  the  bedside,  and  looked  at 
me. 

"  Go  to  sleep." 

I  shrunk  from  her,  and  turning  my  face  to  the 
wall,  tried  to  conjecture  what  had  taken  place. 

I  come  home  one  October  night  from  a  walk 
with  Cecil. 

I  fall  over  something  in  the  laboratory. 

It  explodes. 

My  head  aches. 

I  open  my  eyes,  and  it  is  June  !  the  flowers 
growing,  the  robins  singing,  an  old  woman  killing 

flies.     I  could  make  nothing  out  of  it. 
2* 


34  Out  of  his  Head. 


Let  what  is  broken,  so  remain. 
The  gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain." 


When  the  Doctor  came,  —  Dr.  Molineux,  of 
the  village,  —  he  attempted,  in  a  hesitating  way, 
to  explain  things.  I  had,  he  said,  been  taken 
unexpectedly  ill  in  my  work-shop,  where  I  w^as 
discovered,  one  morning,  by  the  person  who 
brought  me  my  meals.  I  was  found  doubled  up 
among  a  confused  mass  of  shattered  cog-wheels, 
steel  pistons,  copper  cylinders,  alembics,  and  glass 
retorts.  Somewhat  battered  and  considerably  sense 
less.  It  was  supposed  that  I  had  been  stunned  by 
the  explosion  of  some  unknown  machine,  while 
engaged  in  scientific  experiments. 

Here  the  Doctor  gave  a  short  dry  laugh.  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know  why.  I  had  been  long  and 
dangerously  ill,  he  said. 

"  Non  compos  ment — "  the  Doctor  paused 
abruptly,  and  coughed.  "  But  you  are  doing  well 
now,  and  will  soon  be  a  new  man,"  he  added. 


Out  of  his  Head.  35 

A  new  man  ?  To  be  somebody  else,  the 
antithesis  of  myself,  would  indeed  be  a  comfort. 

The  remembrance  of  all  that  had  happened 
gradually  dawned  on  me.  Patience,  patience.  I 
could  only  lie  and  think  of  Cecil,  while  the  long 
days,  and  the  longer  nights,  dragged  on. 

Finally  the  Doctor  gave  me  permission  to  walk 
the  length  of  our  garden.  I  paced  up  and  down 
several  times  under  the  arbor,  unconcernedly; 
for  the  brownie  nurse  was  on  guard.  My  eyes 
roamed  off  to  the  town.  I  could  see  the  square 
chimneys  of  Cecil's  house,  above-  the  tree-tops,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bridge. 

Watching  my  chance,  I  unlatched  the  gate 
noiselessly,  and  stood  in  the  open  road. 

The  crisp  grass  scarcely  bent  under  my  tread, 
as  I  stole  swiftly  away  "from  my  chaperone,  who, 
I  am  now  convinced,  was  merely  a  harmless 
lunatic. 


36  Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  FLIGHT. 

HE  day  had  opened  sunnily,  but 
one  of  those  sudden  fogs  which 
blow  from  the  sea,  had  drifted  in, 
and  hung  over  the  town  like  a  pall 
•of  smoke.  It  caught  at  the  sharp 
spires  and  trailed  along  the  flat 
roofs.  At  intervals,  a  gleam  of 
light  played  through  the  funeral 

folds.     I  thought  the  place  was  burning  :  it  had  a 

disagreeable  habit  of  catching  on  fire  periodically. 

A  history  of  the  town  would  involve  a  series  of 

conflagrations. 

As   I  crossed  the  bridge,  the  cloud  of  fog  grew 

darker  and  heavier,  pressing  down  on  the  houses. 


Out  of  his  Head,  37 

The  boom  of  a  large  bell  broke  sullenly  through 
the  air.  It  was  tolling. 

Something  in  the  sound  arrested  me,  nor  me 
alone,  for  a  decrepit  old  man,  driving  a  yoke  of 
oxen,  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  bridge,  and 
listened. 

"  Is  it  a  fire  ?  "  I  asked,  walking  at  his  side. 
u  A  fire  in  town  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  returned  the  man,  vacantly,  like  a 
deaf  person  ;  "  for  old  Mrs.  Weston,  or  Capt'n 
Roylstone's  child.  I  dunno  which." 

"  Cecil  Roylstone  !  " 

"  Ay ;  she's  bin  dyin'  this  six  month." 

"  Dead  ?  " 

Dead,  said  the  bell. 

The  bridge  reeled  under  my  feet. 

"  No,  old  man  !  you  lie  to  me." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  musingly,  "  misfortune  kind 
o'  follows  somj  families.  Only  last  fall  her  father 
was  wrecked  rijjht  off  Gosport  Light  here,  in  sight 
o'  land." 

I  have  a  dim  impression  of  intending  to   hurl 


38  Out  of  Ms  Head, 

him  into  the  mill-dam,  among  the  slippery  eel- 
grass  ;  but  as  I  glanced  up  I  beheld  Cecil  quietly 
walking  at  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge. 

She  turned  and  beckoned  me. 

Loosening  the  old  man's  arm,  I  hastened  after 
Cecil,  who  moved  leisurely  down  the  hill,  and 
took  the  road  that  made  a  de*tour  by  the  house. 

"  Cecil !  " 

But  she  glided  on  with  unaltered  gait. 

"  She  will  stop  at  the  porch,"  I  thought ;  but 
no  ;  Dr.  Molineux  was  standing  in  the  door- way. 
He  hailed  me  as  I  hurried  by. 

"  Well,  where  now,  Mr.  Lynde  ?  " 

u  I'll  return  presently.  I  wish  to  speak  with 
the  lady  who  has  just  passed." 

"  Lady  ?  "  said  the  Doctor,  eyeing  me  anxiously. 
"  Nobody  has  passed  here  this  half-hour  —  no 
lady,  surely." 

"  What !  "  I  exclaimed,  halting  with  amaze 
ment  at  such  a  barefaced  falsehood,  "  did  not  that 
lady  "  —  pointing  to  Cecil,  who  had  paused  at  a 


Out  of  his  Head,  39 

bend  in  the  road  — "  did  not  that  lady  just  pass 
within  two  yards  of  you  ?  " 

And  I  looked  at  the  Doctor  severely. 

"  I  see  no  one,"  replied  the  Doctor,  following 
the  direction  of  my  finger. 

It  had  been  my  opinion  for  sometime  that  my 
poor  friend  was  deranged.  This,  coupled  with 
the  fact  that  I  once  caught  him  in  his  sanctum 
reading  Neville  on  Insanity,  was  conclusive. 

"  I  see  no  one,"  he  repeated. 

"  Then  you  must  be  blind,  or  stupid." 

I  instantly  repented  of  my  brusqueness.  Surely, 
his  infirmity  was  no  fault  of  his.  So  I  approached 
him,  and  said  kindly, 

"  My  dear  doctor,  you  should  at  once  make 
your  situation  known  to  your  friends.  You  really 
should." 

With  which  words  I  left  him. 

Dr.  Molineux  stared  at  me. 

There  stood  Cecil.  The  June  air  drew  back 
the  clustered  coils  of  hair  that  fell  over  her 
shoulders,  and  I  then  first  noticed  the  unearthly 


40  Out  of  his  Head. 

pallor  of  her  face.     It  was  like  a  piece  of  pure 
Carrara  marble. 

Cecil  seemed  to  smile  upon  me  imploringly,  as 
she  turned  into  a  briery  path  which  branched  off 
from  the  highway,  and  led  to  that  tract  of  wood 
land  which  I  mentioned  in  describing  the  location 

o 

of  my  dwelling.     I  followed. 

Her  pace  now  became  accelerated.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  I  could  keep  the  flying  white 
dress  in  sight. 

On  the  verge  of  the  forest  she  paused,  and 
faced  me  with  a  hectic  light  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
but  for  an  instant,  then  she  plunged  into  the 
dense  wood. 

An  agonizing  fancy  occurred  to  me.  I  con 
nected  Cecil's  wild  look  with  the  still  deep  ponds 
which  lay  within  the  shadow  of  the  vast  wood 
land.  The  thought  gave  wings  to  my  feet ;  I 
darted  after  her  like  an  arrow,  tearing  myself  on 
the  vines  and  briers  that  stretched  forth  a  million 
wiry  fingers  to  impede  my  progress, 

We  were  nearing  the  largest  pond  in  the  wood. 


Out  of  his  Head,  41 

Unless  Cecil  should  alter  her  course,  that  would 
prevent  farther  flight. 

This  circular  piece  of  water  lay,  as  it  were,  in 
an  immense  green  basin,  the  banks  on  every  side 
sloping  to  the  edge  of  the  pond,  where  the 
cardinal-flowers  bent  in  groups,  staring  at  the 
reflection  of  their  flushed  faces.  At  the  belt  of 
maples  enclosing  the  sheet  of  water,  Cecil  stopped 
irresolutely.  I  would  have  clasped  her  in  my 
arms,  but  she  escaped  me,  and  ran  swiftly  toward 
the  pond.  Then  I  heard  a  splash  not  so  loud  as 
would  be  made  by  dropping  a  pebble  into  the 
water.  I  leaped  half-way  down  the  slope. 

Cecil  had  disappeared. 

Near  the  bank,  a  circle  in  the  pond  widened, 
and  widened,  and  was  lost  in  space.  A  single 
silver  bubble  floated  among  the  tangled  weeds 
that  fringed  the  lip  of  the  shore,  and  as  I 
looked,  this  bubble  opened,  and  out  of  it  indo 
lently  rose  a  superb  white  Water-Lily. 

It  was  no  use  to  look  for  Cecil  —  there  she 
was ! 


42  Out  of  his  Head, 

"  You  had  better  come   home  now,"    said  Dr. 
Molineux,  touching  me  on  the  shoulder. 

When  we  reached  the  main-road,  a  funeral  was 
passing  along  slowly,  slowly. 

People  sometimes  smile,  half-incredulouslv,  when 
I  tell  them  these  things :  then  I  point  to  that 
white  flower,  there,  in  the  glass  globe. 


Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  VI. 


TIRED  TO  DEATH. 

•* 

OW  that  I  approach  the  second 
important  epoch  of  my  life  — 
the  second  link  in  the  chain  I  am 
forging  —  the  joy  and  anguish 
which  came  to  me  with  Cecil 
iRoylstone,  must  be  laid  aside, 
like  the  fragments  of  a  dream 
that  lie  perdu  in  the  memory, 
until  some  odd  moment. 

I  was  residing  in  New  Orleans,  an  invalid.  A 
perusal  of  some  of  W — 's  letters  by  a  wood  fire 
in  the  north,  had  drawn  me  southward  in  search 
of  lost  vitality.  I  am  not  sure  it  was  the  most 
efficacious  move  ;  but  mine  is  a  maladv  full  of 


44  Out  of  Ids  Head, 

surmises,  and  hopes,  and  disappointment.  Why 
do  I  speak  of  myself?  I  am  only  the  walking- 
gentleman  in  this  particular  act  of  the  melodrame 
—  the  Scaramouch  that  glides  in  to  darken  things. 
The  hero  waits  at  the  side-scenes  for  his  cue. 

Enter,  A  Shadow. 

Mark  Rowland,  at  twenty-four,  was  tired  to 
death.  His  psychological  sickness  was  not  occa 
sioned  by  varied  experience,  like  that  of  the  cynic 
in  the  play,  who  had  seen  everything,  done  every 
thing,  and  found  nothing  in  it.  He  came  to  his 
weariness  without  that  painful  iteration. 

There  is  a  certain  kind  of  woman  who  becomes 
physically  perfect  long  before  her  heart  is  de 
veloped. 

If  she  chance  to  have  much  beauty,  she  is 
dangerous  beyond  belief,  and  should  not  be  left 
unchained  to  destroy  people. 

She  goes  about,  seeking  whom  she  may  devour. 

It  is  an  uncertain  leopardess :  it  kills  with 
strokes  softer  than  satin. 

Mr.  Howland,  shortly  after  leaving  college,  was 


Out  of  liis  Head,  15 

so  deserted  by  good  fortune  as  to  find  himself,  one 
clay,  at  the  instep  of  such  a  creature. 

Celeste  G was  poor,  in  humble  life,  and 

lovely  as  an  ideal.  But,  at  eighteen,  she  had  no 
more  heart  than  there  was  an  anatomical  necessity 
for.  She  was  attracted  by  Mark  —  swayed  by 
her  glamour  over  him,  rather  than  by  his  influence 
over  her.  Jmperious,  eighteen,  and  unchained. 
What  could  be  hoped  of  her  ? 

Rowland's  family,  rich  and  ever  so  many  years 
old,  (old  enough  to  know  better,)  opposed  the 
match  with  all  that  superfluous  acrimony  which 
characterizes  a  domestic  quarrel. 

This,  for  Mark  was  human,  increased  his  pas 
sion.  He  only  grew  firm  about  the  lips  as  Madam 
his  mother  protested. 

"  This  person  Celeste,"  remarked  Madam,  loftily, 
"  is  common  and  poor." 

And  poverty  is  the  unpardonable  sin  from  Dan 
to  Beersheba. 

Matters  went  wretchedly. 

At  length  the  contending  forces  agreed  to  an 


46  Out  of  his  Head, 

armistice,  and  Rowland,  worn  out  by  tears,  con 
sented  to  spend  two  years  abroad,  and  then,  at  the 
expiration  of  that  time,  if  his  purpose  remained 
unchanged  and  unchangeable,  why,  then,  perhaps, 
it  was  more  than  likely,  etc.  etc.  —  the  antique 
story. 

The  wilful  went  abroad.  He  travelled  through 
Italy,  and  wintered  at  Florence ;  drifted  on  the 
Rhine,  and  summered  at  Schwalbach.  The  large, 
languishing  eyes  of  his  Andromache  went  with 
him.  His  thoughts  were  full  of  Celeste:  he 
beheld  her  everywhere  —  in  every  saintly  picture, 
in  every  faultless  marble  :  every  beautiful  thing  in 
nature  and  art  was  an  inferior  type  of  Celeste. 

When  the  two  years  had  elapsed,  he  returned 
home,  brown  and  handsome,  wondering,  on  the 
passage,  why  she  had  written  him  only  two  letters 
in  twice  as  many  months. 

Now,  one  cannot  get  up  one's  trousseau,  and 
write  letters,  at  the  same  time.  A  week  before 
his  arrival,  Celeste  was  married. 

"This  person  Celeste,"  said  Madam,  mighty 
drily,  "  has  stepped  out !  " 


Out  of  his  Head.  17 

.  She  had,  indeed. 

When  Howland  received  the  news,  he  bit  his 
mustache,  and  looked  steadily  at  nothing  for 
twenty  minutes.  Then  he  threw  a  string  of  cameos 
into  the  grate,  whistling  an  air  from  E  Giuramento. 

As  a  piece  of  music,  it  was  a  failure. 

He  was  cut  to  the  heart. 

For  Celeste  to  wed  an  opera-singer.     Basta  ! 

He  smoked  uncounted  segars  that  day,  and 
came  out  of  the  clouds  a  different  man.  His 
chateau  had  toppled  over  in  one  night,  and  there 
was  not  an  atom  among  the  ruins  worth  picking 
up  the  next  morning.  In  the  rush  and  bubble  of 
city  life,  he  sought  to  wring  out  the  remembrance 
of  his  wrong. 
1  But  grief  is  one  of  the  quiet  colors  that  wash. 

At  this  time  my  health  became  impaired,  and 
an  immediate  visit  to  some  milder  climate,  was  the 
only  specific.  In  an  evil '  hour,  I  urged  Rowland 
to  accompany  me  to  New  Orleans. 

We  hired  a  small,  furnished  cottage,  in  a  retired 
faubourg  of  the  city,  and  set  up  our  dii  penates  ; 


48  Out  of  his  Head. 

the  household  consisting  of  Cip,  a  negro  gardener ; 
Christina,  a  pretty  quadroon  girl,  who  kept  our 
manage  as  tidy  as  a  snow-drift ;  and  Agnes, 
Christina's  child. 

With  the  new  surroundings,  Howland  for 
awhile  left  the  past  to  bury  its  dead.  But  by 
degrees  his  former  restlessness  returned.  Time 
pressed  on  him  like  lead.  He  grew  haggard  and 
careworn,  and  a  dim  scar,  which  he  never  liked 
spoken  of,  brightened  on  his  lip  ;  he  played  wildly, 
got  into  debt,  and  was  going  to  the  bad  by  a 
through-train. 

Of  course  my  remonstrances  were  thrown 
away.  What  is  the  use  of  advising  a  man  who 
is  tired  to  death  ? 

In  the  meanwhile,  my  own  life  passed  tran 
quilly  enough,  with  the  reading  of  books  on  metal 
lurgy,  and  the  drawing  of  plans  for  a  more  system 
atic  construction  of  the  MOON-APPARATUS,  which, 
I  regret  to  say,  had  been  all  but  demolished  by 
the  accident  related. 


Out  of  his  Head, 


49 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Ax  ARRIVAL. 

HE  fire  of  my  segar  glowed  in 
the  dusk  like  a  panther's  eye.  I 
,sat  in  the  verandah  of  our  cottage- 
house  in  Rue  de  -  smoking  a 
>  Manilla  cheroot,  and  yielding  my 
self  up  to  the  influences  of  one  of 
those  southern  nights  which  make 
a  man  forget  that  he  must  die. 
The  stars  were  heavy  and  lustrous,  and  the 
clouds  sailed  through  the  sky,  mere  thistle-down. 
Every  stir  of  air  brought  me  the  odors  of  orange- 
blossoms,  and  wafted  the  snaky  smoke  of  my 
cheroot  among  the  honeysuckle  vines,  which 
clambered  erratically  over  the  portico,  shutting  me 
out  from  the  dense  moonlight. 


50  Out  of  his  Head, 

Three  stone  steps  led  from  the  porch  into  the 
garden,  where  a  marble  Naiad  filled  a  cup  of 
lapis  lazuli  from  a  slender  urn  of  antique  design. 
The  jets  of  water,  breaking  on  the  rim  of  the 
goblet,  and  dripping  down  in  shattered  crystals  on 
the  gold-fish  in  the  bowl  of  the  fountain,  made 
drowsy  music.  It  was  like  the  uneasy  bubbling 
of  a  narghille. 

A  sly,  white  pelican  waded  in  the  dank  grass, 
and  would  have  liked  to  split  a  gold-fish  with  its 
long  bill. 

What  a  fairy  garden  it  was,  with  its  shelly  walks 
leading  to  nowhere  in  particular ;  its  dwarfish 
fig-trees  with  their  pointed  leaves  ; '  its  beds  of 
mignonette ;  its  house-pots  of  fragrant  jonquelles 
and  camelias  ;  its  one  heavy  magnolia,  growing 
alone  like  P£re  Antoine's  date-palm  ;  and  the 
picket  of  mulberries,  just  within  the  lattice-fence, 
marking  the  boundaries  of  our  demesne. 

It  was  not  an  extensive  sweep  of  land,  but  the 
moonlight  created  interminable  vistas,  and  de- 

O  ' 

stroyed  one's  idea  of  distance.     It  appeared  as  if 


Out  of  his  Head,  51 

the  whole  earth  were  a  tropical  forest,  stretching 
out  from  our  door-step. 

The  only  sounds  that  broke,  or,  rather,  mingled 
with  my  reverie,  were  the  gurglings  of  the  foun 
tain,  the  sleepy  rustling  of  the  leaves,  and  the 
inarticulate  music  of  women's  voices,  blown  to  me 
from  neighboring  balconies. 

The  inhabitants  of  this  arid  land  dwell  out  of 
doors  after  sundown.  As  you  stroll  through  the 
streets,  in  the  twilight,  you  see  groups,  assembled 
on  the  piazzas  of  the  low-roofed  French  houses,  or 
sauntering  unceremoniously  in  front  gardens ;  and 
many  a  Creole  brunette  and  many  a  rich  southern 
blonde,  bends  tender  eyes  on  you  as  you  pass. 
You  catch  glimpses  of  charming  domestic  tableaux 

—  Old  Age   in  his  arm-chair  on  the  porch,   and 
Youth  and  Beauty  (with  cherry-colored  ribbons,) 
making  love  under  the  rose.     I   think  life  is   an 
easy  sort  of  inconvenience  in  warm  latitudes. 

The  fountain  gurgled,  the  leaves  whispered,  and 
my  cheroot  went  out,  a  single  spark  flying  upward 

—  the  soul  of  St.   Nicotine  I      I   sat  watching  a 


62  Out  of  his  Head, 

lithe  chameleon  that  undulated  out  of  the  dark, 
and  clad  itself  in  a  suit  of  moonlight  on  the  stone 
step.  There  it  lay,  moist,  glimmering,  dead  with 
ecstacy.  Whether  it  was  the  torpor  of  the  animal 
that  extended  itself  to  me,  or  the  effect  of  the 
opium,  sometimes  wrapt  in  cheroots,  I  am  not 
able  to  state  ;  but  without  warning,  a  drowsiness 
directly  overpowered  my  senses.  I  slept,  and 
dreamed. 

I  scarcely  know  how  to  tell  the  dream  which 
came  to  me  —  if  it  were  a  dream. 

An  unnatural  stillness  fell  upon  the  world ; 
the  liquid  music  of  the  fountain  fainted  in  the 
distance  ;  the  leaves  drooped  in  the  sultry,  motion 
less  air,  like  velvet.  The  atmosphere  became 
strangely  oppressive,  and  the  aromas  from  the  pot- 
plants  grew  so  penetrating  that  it  was  almost  pain 
rto  inhale  them. 

Rising  from  my  seat,  I  walked  with  difficulty  to 
the  open  end  of  the  verandah.  The  sky  presented 
a  startling  appearance. 

The  clouds  were  opaque  and  stagnant,  the  stars 


Out  of  his  Head,  53 

shrivelled  with  waning  fires,  and  a  sickly,  saffron 
tinge  around  the  edge  of  the  moon,  made  it  look 
as  if  it  had  commenced  to  decay. 

I  felt  that  these  phenomena  were  not  the  pre 
lude  to  one  of  those  tornadoes  which  frequently 
burst  upon  the  breathless  quiet  of  tropical  regions  ; 
for  there  was  no  electricity  in  the  close  air,  no 
muttering  of  the  elements  ;  but  a  deep,  brooding 
silence,  infinitely  more  appalling  than  any  tumult. 

A  vage  apprehension  of  some  awful  calamity 
took  possession  of  me.  I  shuddered  at  being 
alone. 

The  odors  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  orange, 
heliotrope,  magnolia  —  subtle  and  noxious,  they 
were,  like  the  exhalations  from  the  poisoned 
flowers  in  Rappaccini's  garden.  I  was  faint  with 
them. 

Suddenly  the  street-gate  swung  to  with  a  clang. 
I  heard  footfalls  on  the  gravelled  walks.  Thank 
heaven  !  some  one  was  coming  to  me. 

Cip  stumbled  up  the  steps.  He  saw  me,  and 
paused,  resting  against  the  balustrade,  his  hat 
slouched  over  his  face.  I  called  to  him. 


54  Out  of  his  Head, 

"  Tell  me,  Cip,  do  you  see  that  dreadful  sky,  or 
am  I  still  dreaming  ?  " 

The  negro  did  not  lift  his  head,  but  said, 
huskily, 

"  Marster,  it  has  come,  IT  has  come  !  " 

"  What  has  come  ?  " 

"  Lord,  look  down  an'  help  us,"  murmured 
the  negro  solemnly. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me !  Where  is  Mr. 
Howland  ?  Who  has  come  ?  Wliat  has  come  ?  " 

"The  — the— " 

«  The  —  what?" 

"  The  CHOL'RA,  marster  !  " 


Out  of  Ms  Head. 


55 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


DARK  DAYS. 


HE  cholera  was  upon  us  ;  but 
not  without  warning.  Year  after 

year  it  had  pursued  its  lonely 
I 

march  through  woodland  and 
'desert,  as  noiseless  and  implacable 
as  Fate.  For  months  and  months, 
rumor  had  heralded  its  fell  ap 
proach.  Now  it  stole  with  the 

auras  of  morning  into  a  populous  town  ;  now  it 

glided   with   the    shades   of    nightfall   into    some 

happy  village. 

Graves  sprung  up  in  its  wake,  like  thistles. 
The  lank  Arab,  munching  his  few  dates  in  the 

desert,   looked    up    from   the   scanty   meal,   and 


56  Out  of.  his  Head, 

beheld  those  basilisk  eyes.     His  camel  wandered 
off  without  a  master. 

The  be-nighted  traveller  by  the  Ganges,  sunk 
exhausted  on  the  banks  of  the  muddy  river ;  but 
the  beasts  of  the  jungle  did  not  growl  over  him, 
for  even  the  nameless  birds  flew,  shrieking,  away. 

The  English  mother  sat  by  the  hamlet-door, 
singing  to  her  babe.  The  tiny  hand  clutched  at 
the  air,  and  the  soft  white  eyelids  were  ringed 
with  violet. 

Beauty  saw  a  baleful  visage  in  her  mirror.  No 
rouge,  nor  pearl-powder  nor  balm  could  make  it 
comely  again. 

The  miser  hugged  and  kissed  his  money-bags  ; 
but  where  he  went  he  could  not  take  his  idols. 

Then  Dives  died  in  his  palace,  and  the  leper  at 
the  groined  gate-way. 

The  fingers  of  lovers  were  unknitted. 

The  Cholera,  the  Scourge ! 

In  a  single  night  the  Afreet  spread  his  wings 
over  the  doomed  city.  A  woman  had  been 


Out  of  his  Head.  57 

stricken  "down  while  buying  a  bunch  of  flowers  in 
St.  Mary's  Market.  An  unknown  man  fell  head 
long  from  his  horse  on  the  levee.  Six  persons  lay 
at  the  point  of  death  in  a  cafe  on  Rue  de  Baronne. 
The  hospitals  were  already  filling  up ;  and  the  red 
flag  wilted  in  the  languid  breeze  at  the  quarantine. 
The  streets  were  strewn  with  lime,  and  every  pre 
caution  taken  by  the  authorities  to  extirpate  the 
plague.  And  then  commenced  that  long  proces 
sion  of  funerals  which  never  ceased  to  trail  by  our 
door  for  so  many  weary  months.  It  is  a  question 
in  my  mind,  though,  whether  the  cholera  is  con 


tagious. 


How  hot,  and  dull,  and  dead  the  days  were  ! 

The  roofs  of  the  houses  lay  festering  in  the 
canescent  heat ;  the  flowers  drooped,  and  died 
cankerous  deaths ;  the  outer  leaves  of  the  foliage 
changed  to  a  livid  green  hue,  and  the  timid  grass 
crept  up,  and  withered,  in  the  interstices  of  the 
sidewalk.  All  day  a  tawny  gold  mist  hung  over 

the  place.      At   night,  the   dews   fell,   and  from 
3* 


58  Out  of  his  Head. 

cypress  swamps,  on  the  skirts  of  the  city,  rose 
deadly  miasma. 

No  joyous .  children  played  at  the  door-step  in 
the  twilight.  The  guttural  voice  of  the  strolling 
marchand  was  no  longer  heard  crying  his  creams 
and  comfits.  The  small  fruit-booths  along  the 
street  were  tenantless.  The  St.  Charles  Theatre 
and  The  Varieties  were  closed  —  only  the  tragedy 
of  death  drew  crowded  houses.  The  glittering 
bar-rooms,  with  their  fancy  glasses,  and  mirrors, 
and  snowy  drinks,  were  almost  deserted.  Even 
rondo,  roulette,  faro,  monte  and  lansquenet,  lost 
their  fascination.  Mass  was  said  morning  and 
evening  in  the  old  cathedral  at  Place  $  Armes  ; 
and  many  of  the  churches,  catholic  and  protestant, 
were  open  throughout  the  day. 

The  wheel  of  social  life  was  broken. 

As  to  Howland  and  myself,  we  were  not  panic- 
stricken.  The  fine  edge  of  my  fear  of  death  had 
been  blunted  by  a  similar  experience,  at  Cuba, 
dunng  a  yellow-fever  season ;  and  Howland  re- 


Oat  of  his  Head.  59 

garded  the  workings  of  chance  with  stolid  in 
difference. 

When  the  epidemic  first  broke  out,  he .  had 
proposed,  for  my  sake  only,  a  trip  across  Lake 
Ponchartrain,  to  Pass  Christian,  or  Biloxi ;  but 
I  would  not  listen  to  him.  In  overruling  How- 

o 

land's  suggestion,  I  was  simply  a  puppet,  moving 
in  accordance  with  my  wires.  It  was  predestined 
we  should  remain  and  face  the  sorrows  of  that 
year. 

I  am  a  fatalist,  you  see  ;  and  have  reason  to 
be  one. 

We  changed  our  mode  of  living  in  no  particu 
lar;  but  ate  fruit,  drank  wine,  (rank  heresy,) 
walked,  rode,  and  slept  as  usual.  And  even  Cip, 
who  had  somewhat  recovered  from  his  first  fright, 
would  sit  of  an  evening  by  the  kitchen-door,  and 
play  plaintive  negro  melodies  on  his  rickety  violin. 

"  Cip,"  I  used  to  say,  "  this  Asiatic  cholera  is 
a  countryman  of  yours." 

"  O  Lord,  marster !  " 

Still  the  work  went  on.     People  died  and  lay 


00  Out  of  his  Head. 

for  days  unburied,  in  obscure  garrets.  Oftentimes 
one  cart  bore  away  an  entire  family  —  hurried 
them  off.  Lying  in  my  bed,  I  have  been  kept 
awake  by  hearses  rumbling  by  —  at  midnight. 
What  I  write  I  saw,  and  was  a  part  of.  I  would 
it  were  fiction. 


Near  our  house  stood  a  large  brick  church,  the 
Church  of  the  Bleeding  Heart,  I  think  it  was 
called.  The  exterior  of  the  edifice  was  left  in  an 
elaborate  state  of  unfinish,  the  costly  interior 
decorations  having,  I  suppose,  exhausted  the 
parochial  funds.  It  was  a  habit  of  mine  to  pass 
an  hour,  every  day,  in  wandering  about  the 
dimly-lighted  aisles,  or  sitting  by  the  altar  and 
looking  at  a  painting  of  the  Crucifixion,  which 
covered  a  Gothic  window  back  of  the  dais.  The 
sun,  early  in  the  forenoon,  used  to  rest  for  five  or 
ten  minutes  on  the  glass  directly  above  the 
Savior's  head,  and,  blending  with  the  aureola 
which  the  artist  had  placed  around  the  angelic 
brows,  produced  a  striking  effect. 


Out  of  his  Head,  61 

The  painting,  and  the  soothing  twilight  of  the 
spot,  lifted  me  into  holy  atmospheres.  Here  I 
came  and  thought  of  life  and  the  world  —  not 
this  world,  or  this  life ;  but  the  Life  and  the 
World  beyond. 

Out  of  my  visits  to  the  church  grew  an  incident 
which  I  cannot  resist  recording.  A  story  within 
a  story,  says  Goethe,  is  a  flaw  in  art.  But  life  is 
made  up  of  episodes  —  a  story  within  a  story. 

One  morning  I  was  leaving  the  church  when  I 
heard  somebody  sound  the  keys  of  the  organ  in 
the  loft.  There  is  a  rich,  gloomy  pathos  about 
the  instrument  that  always  impresses  me.  I  stood 
listening  to  the  mellow,  irregular  notes,  touched 
at  random.  Presently  the  musician  lingered  on 
an  octave,  as  if  to  gather  strength  for  a  prolonged 
flight  —  then  the  splendid  Wedding  March  of 
Mendelssohn  broke  along  the  aisles,  and  soared  up 
to  the  shadowy  dome. 

How  magically  those  unseen  fingers  wrung  the 
meaning  of  the  great  maestro  from  the  inanimate 
keys  !  with  what  power  and  delicacy  of  touch  ! 


62  (tat ''of  his  Head. 

As  I  listened,  the  sacred  candles  were  suddenly 
lighted,  and  in  their  lambent  glare  a  thousand 
ghosts  crowded  into  the  carven  pews,  thronged  the 
Cillery;  the  priest  stood  in  the  chancel;  and  then 
the  bridal  pageant  swept  by,  and  then  the  grand 
music  burst  out  beyond  control,  surging  away 
amono-  the  resonant  arches  in  tumultuous  waves 

o 

of  sound ;  and  then  —  as  if  to  render  the  illusion 
perfect  —  the  clock  in  the  belfry  struck  twelve. 

At  the  last  stroke,  the  music  ceased,  the  church 
was  emptied  of  its  ghostly  audience,  the  scented 
candles  flickered  out,  and  I  stood  alone.  I  could 
have  wept  with  an  undefined,  mysterious  sorrow, 
—  wept  the  loss  of  something  I  had  never  known, 
something  that  might  have  been  ! 

Again  the  music  rose,  but  more  gently  —  a 
melody  of  Beethoven.  It  was  left  unfinished. 
The  organ-lid  closed  abruptly  ;  I  heard  the  fine 
click  of  the  key  turning  in  the  wards,  and  hasten 
ed  to  the  vestibule  of  the  church  to  catch  a  gl  mpse 
of  the  musician. 

As  I  gained  the  door,  a  young  girl,  leading  a 


Out  of  liis^ead,  63 

little  boy  by  the  hand,  was  slowly  descending  the 
broad  oaken  staircase. 

"  Were  you  playing  the  organ,  a  moment 
since  ?  "  I  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  the  organist  here  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  my  father  was." 

"Was?" 

"  They  took  papa   away   last  week,"  said  the 
boy  simply ;  "  and  this   is   Clara  Dujardine,   my 
sister,  who  loves  him." 
.  They  passed  on. 

Every  morning  for  several  weeks  the  child- 
musician  came  to  the  choir.  It  was  not  hard  to 
understand  why  the  poor  girl  fingered  there,  day 
after  day,  playing  the  same  glorious  music  always 
—  the  music  which  the  old  organist  had  loved. 

Suddenly  hgr  visits  ceased. 

The  sunshine  rested  on  the  head  of  the  painted 
Christ,  and  lighted  up  the  stained  windows  ;  the 
dreary  sexton,  and,  now  and  then,  a  priest  or  two, 
found  their  way  into  the  sanctuary :  but  I  waited 


64  Out  iff  his  Head. 

in   vain  for  the  girl  with   her  spiritual   eyes  and 
fragile  hands. 

In  the  ancient  French  burying-ground,  is  a 
humble  mound  which  the  delicate  grass,  I  like  to 
think,  takes  pleasures  in  making  beautiful,  before 
it  touches  the  other  graves.  Spring-time  had 
muffled  it  in  flowers,  the  day  I  bent  clown  and 
read  the  simple  inscription  : 

CLARA  DUJARDINE. 
Aged  17. 

Near  the  head-stone,  with  a  wreath  of  immortelles 
in  his  shut  hand,  sat  the  little  boy  —  asleep. 

The  sultry,  dreadful  days  ;  the  huge  city  in  its 
swoon-like  silence  ;  the  busy,  busy  death  !  —  how 
these  things  stay  with  my  thought.  Here,  in 
pleasant  New  England,  sometimes  in  the  twilight, 
invisible  fingers  play  for  me  the  $ad  strains  of 
Beethoven,  the  Wedding  March  of  Mendelssohn. 


Out  of  Ms  Head, 


CHAPTER  IX. 


AGNES. 


OR   heaven's   sake,    Lynde,"    said 
Howland,  one  evening,  u  let  us  have 
our  coffee    aud  segars  on  the  back 
piazza.    Human  nature  cannot  stand 
ten  funerals  to  one  cup  of  Mocha." 
The  hearses  crawled  by  the  house 
day  and  night,  an  interminable  train. 
"  Coffee  on  the  back  porch,  Chris 
tina." 

As  Christina  placed  our  bamboo  chairs  on  the 
verandah,  I  saw  by  her  swollen  eyelids  that  she 
had  been  weeping. 

44  Christina?  "  said  I,  inquiringly.  * 
44  Little   Agnes,    sir  —  I'm   afraid  she   is   very 
sick." 


66  Oat  of  his  Head, 

Little  Agnes !  Christina's  child,  the  only 
flower  that  blossomed  for  one  poor  life  —  the  little 
pale  bloom  of  love  that  sprung  up  in  the  crevice 
of  a  broken  heart. 

I  do  not  know  Christina's  history ;  but  I 
imagine  it  would  not  be  impossible  to  guess.  I 
think  that  a^  page  of  it  was  written  on  the  face  of 
the  child. 

Agnes  was  fairer  than  her  mother  ;  she  had  her 
mother's  willowy  form,  the  same  ductile  voice  ; 
but  the  light  hair,  thin  lips,  and  sensitive  nostrils, 
were  not  of  Christina's  race.  The  passions  of  two 
alien  natures  were  welded  in  that  diminutive 
frame. 

Rowland  and  I  had  made  a  pet  of  the  girl,  for 
she  had  a  hundred  pretty  womanly  ways,  and  a 
certain  sadness  older  than  herself — a  sadness 
peculiar  to  such  waifs. 

The  sick  child  lay  up  stairs,  in  Christina's 
sleeping-room.  One  glance  at  the  serene  face 
assured  us  there  was  no  hope :  the  radiance  of 
another  world  was  dawning  on  the  forehead. 


Out  of  Ms  Head.  67 

That  night  little  Agnes  passed  away.  -I  was 
sorry  for  Christina,  but  not  for  little  Agnes  ! 

Christina,  in  her  bereavement,  was  not  noisy 
and  absurd,  like  women  I  have  seen.  Servitude 
had  been  a  hundred  years  taming  the  blood  in 
her  veins. 

Her  grief  expressed  itself  in  silent  caresses. 
She  sat  by  the  bedside  all  day,  dressing  the  child 
with  flowers.  Now  she  would  lay  a  knot  of 
pansies  on  the  still  heart,  now  she  would  srrooth 
one  of  the  pitiful  little  hands  —  yearning,  dying 
for  some  faint  sign  of  recognition.  Then  she 
picked  off  the  flowers4,  one  by  one,  and  rearranged 
them.  Fondly  combed  the  long  silk  hair  over 
her  fingers,  with  a  sad  half-smile,  and  not  a  tear 
comforting  her  dry  eyelids.  There  was  pathos 
in  that. 

"  Give  sorrow  words;  the  grief  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'erfraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break." 

The  carriage  which  was  to  convey  the  child  to 
the  cemetery,  drew  up  at  our  door  early  in  the 
afternoon. 


68  Out  of  Ms  Head, 

When  Christina  heard  the  wheels  grate  on  the 
curb-stone,  her  lip  quivered,  and  she  reached  out 
her  arms,  as  if  she  would  fold  the  babe  forever  on 
the  bosom  where  it  could  never  nestle  ao-ain. 

o 

"  Not  yet,  please  • —  not  quite  yet !  " 

The  sorrow  and  supplication  of  those  words 
were  not  to  be  resisted. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  Cip  raised  the  light 
coffin  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it,  with  a  sort  of 
rough  kindness,  to  the  carriage.  His  violin  was 
mute,  that  night,  and  many  a  night  afterwards. 

As  the  gate  shut  to,  Christina  stood  on  the 
piazza,  with  that  same  sad  hatf-smile  on  her  lips. 

"  Good-bye,  little  Agnes !  "  she  said,  with 
touching  tenderness. 

Then  Christina  went  into  the  house,  and  closed 
the  door  softly. 


Out  of  ids  Head, 


69 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  RED  DOMIXO. 

OWLAND  and  myself  sat  on  the 
back  seat,  and  Cip  outside  with  the 
driver.  So  we  moved  on. 

Saving  an  occasional  hearse, 
'intersecting  our  way,  the  streets 
were  silent  and  deserted  as  usual. 
The  tall  houses,  here  and  there 
looming  up  against  the  increasing 
twilight,  were  like  the  ghosts  of  houses.  The 
sweet  human  life  in  them  had  fled.  Everything 
was  spectral  and  unreal,  we  most  of  all,  with  that 
slim  black  box  on  the  front  seat.  A  phantom 
carriage,  dragged  by  phantom  horses  to  a  grave 
yard  ! 


70  Out  of  his  Head. 

We  left  Agnes  in  the  leafy  French  cemetery  ; 
and,  sending  the  negro  home  with  the  barouche, 
followed  on  leisurely,  threading  the  narrow  streets, 
arm  in  arm,  as  speechless  as  two  statues. 

We  were  in  what  is  termed  the  French  part 
of  the  city,  one  of  the  lower  municipalities  —  a 
district  as  distinct  from  the  American  precincts  as 
Paris  is.  Here,  in  dangerous  times,  long  ago,  a 
few  brave  men  laid  the  foundation  of  the  great 
and  miserable  city.  The  houses,  to  all  appear 
ances,  were  built  immediately  after  the  Deluge ; 
and  the  streets,  crowded  with  the  odd-ends  of 
architecture,  branch  off  into  each  other  in  the 
most  whimsical  fashion. 

As  we  wheeled  round  the  angle  of  one  of  these 
wrinkled  thoroughfares,  our  ears  were  saluted  by 
an  exclamation  of  deep  satisfaction,  and  a  merry 
peal  of  girlish  laughter  ;  at  the  same  instant  we 
found  ourselves  face  to  face  with  two  persons  who 
were  apparently  costumed  for  a  bal  masque  — 
one,  with  a  certain  uncouth  dignity,  in  the  showy 
court-dress  of  the  time  of  Louis  Quatorze,  and  the 


Out  of  his  Head.  71 

other,  seemingly  a  young  and  pretty  woman, 
dressed  as  a  page.  The  faces  of  both  were  con 
cealed  by  semi-masks,  a  short  fringed  curtain 
shielding  the  lower  features. 

A  door  at  the  right  of  us  was  thrown  open, 
and  a  flood  of  light  fell  glitteringly  on  these  two 
personages  who  occupied  the  confined  sidewalk, 
and  seemed  disposed  to  dispute  our  passage.* 

Rowland  attempted  to  push  by  when  the  page 
laid  her  small  gloved  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  By  your  leave,  messieurs,"  said  the  page, 
"  this  is  Louis  XIV  !  —is  n't  it,  Charley  ?  " 

The  man  nodded. 

"  We  were  instructed  by  our  queen,"  continued 
the  mask,  "  to  fill  two  vacant  seats  at  her  royal 
board.  She  gives  a  banquet  to-night ;  plates  were 
set  for  twenty  favorites  of  the  ermine.  Eighteen 
came,  and  two  did  n't  —  they  neglected  even  to 

*This  probably  took  place  during  that  period  of  festivity 
which  precedes  Lent,  it  still  being  a  custom,  among  the  Franco- 
American  population  of  New  Orleans,  to  "  keep  the  Carnival."  — 
EDITOR. 


72  Out  of  his  Head, 

send  their  regrets.  Impolite  in  them  —  was  n't 
it,  Charley?"' 

"  Confoundedly,"  said  the  monarch,  curtly. 

"  But  they  had  some  slight  excuse  ;  they  were 
quite  dead ;  and  we  forgive  'em,  don't  we, 
Charley  ?  " 

"  We  forgive  'em." 

"  What  does  all  this  mummery  mean  ? "  said 
Howland,  impatiently. 

"  There !  don't  be  cross.  It  means  that  we 
crave  your  presence  at  the  feast.  O,  you  must 
come !  Or  we'll  have  the  whole  regal  household 
buzzing  at  your  ears  in  a  pair  of  seconds  !  " 

While  the  girl  spoke,  a  dozen  maskers  —  man 
darins,  satyrs,  and  outlandish  figures,  —  crowded 
the  doorway,  and  seemed  waiting  only  for  the 
w^trd  to  seize  us  bodily.  There  was  no  chance 
for  retreat. 

"  Let  us  go  with  these  jesters,"  said  Howland, 
in  a  whisper,  "  since  we  cannot  help  ourselves 
without  trouble.  We  are  among  the  Romans. 
This  is  a  new  edition  of  the  Decamerone" 


Out  of  Ms  Head.  73 

"  How  fortunately  we  met  you,"  cried  the 
tfirl.  "  Come  !  " 

Her  mask  slipped  aside,  and  for  an  instant  I 
caught  a  profile  view  of  a  pretty,  aquiline  nose, 
one  sunny  eye,  and  a  mouth  like  a  moss-rose. 

"  Now,  Mollie,"  said  the  man,  thrusting  his 
arm  through  mine.  The  page  took  coquettish 
possession  of  Holland. 

We  were  conducted  throught  a  bare,  tmcarpeted 
entry,  at  the  end  of  which  a  green-baize  door 
opened  into  a  saloon.  The  masqueraders  whom 
we  had  seen  at  the  entrance,  now  seated  them 
selves  at  the  table,  which  extended  nearly  the 
entire  length  of  the  room. 

Our  appearance  on  the  threshold  was  greeted 
with  a  shout  of  laughter. 

A  woman  in  a  blood-red  domino  and  scarlet 
satin  mask,  half  rose  from  a  fauteuil,  as  we 
entered,  waved  her  hand  to  us  graciously,  and 
sunk  back  on  the  downy  cushions  with  such  un- 
assumed  grace  and  majesty,  that  I  involuntarily 


74  Out  of  his  Head. 

removed  my  hat.  Rowland  bit  his  lip,  and  made 
a  low  bow. 

"  You  are  welcome,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Red 
Domino. 

The  voice  was  low,  and  sweet,  and  tremulous, 
like  the  sound  of  a  harp-string,  lightly  touched. 

'The  page  proceeded  to  introduce  to  us  the 
motley  people,  half  of  whom  were  women,  and  all 
evidently  citizens  of  Bohemia. 

u  This,"  began  the  girl,  with  mock  gravity, 
"  is  our  light- o'-foot,  Zephyr,  eating  caramels ; 
that  dear  creature,  there,  in  blue,  who  is  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  press  Jacques'  fingers  under  the 
table,  is  called  Next-to-heaven,  but  she's  only 
next  to  Jacques,  which  is  much  the  same  thing. 
The  young  lady  with  wings,  who  looks  as  if  she 
were  going  to  fly  away,  and  never  does,  is 
L'Amour.  Dear  me !  some  of  you  have  charac 
ters,  and  some  of  you  have  n't.  This  is  Rose 
Bonbon,  and  this,  Madam  la  Marquise  with  the 
snowiest  shoulder  in  Louisiana.  You  should  see 
them  with  their  masks  off —  and  be  unhappy  !  " 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  75 

;c  This,"  proceeded  the  speaker,  turning  to  a 
slim  harlequin,  who  resembled  the  small  blade  of 
a  penknife,  "  is  a  sentimental  gentleman  who 
writes  verses  to  eyebrows  —  he  makes  six  copies 
of  each  sonetto,  and  so  kills  half  a  dozen  birds 
with  one  stone.  This  is  Robert  le  —  what's-his 
name.  This  is  Hamlet,  you  know  him  by  his 
inky  cloak:  this  is  Petruchio,  the  woman-tamer 
tamed  by  a  woman,  (Mrs.  P.  lectures  him !  )  and 
here  is  Friar  Lawrence,  who  will  confess  you  for 
a  picayune,  provided,  always,  you  are  young, 
handsome,  and  feminine  —  but  you  must  be  the 
last,  he's  so  pious  !  " 

"  And  you,"  said  Rowland,  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself,  "  you  are  —  " 

"  Nobody  in  particular,  very  much  at  your 
service !  " 

And  the  girl  walked  archly  away  on  the  points 
of  her  toes,  like  a  ballet-dancer. 

While  this  outre  introduction  was  being  con 
cluded,  I  glanced  around  the  salon.  A  globed 
lamp,  suspended  by  a  silver  chain,  hung  like  a 


76  Out  of  his  Head, 

full  moon  over  the  centre  of  the  table.  Project 
ing  from  the  frescoed  walls  on  either  side  were 
Chinese  lanterns,  covered  with  flat  landscapes  and 
hieroglyphics.  Ancient,  mediaeval  and  modern 
furniture  was  piled  about  the  room  in  grotesque 
confusion.  It  was  like  an  antiquary's  collection. 
No  two  pieces  matching.  One  window  was  hung 
with  blue  brocade,  alive  with  an  Etruscan  vine- 
work  of  gold  thread  ;  a  second,  unpleasantly  green 
with  a  Yenitian  blind.  The  floor  was  muffled  in 
a  Turkish  carpet,  wrought  so  naturally  with 
azaleas  and  ipomeas,  that  their  perfumes  seemed 
to  fill  the  chamber. 

But  the  lounges,  the  drapery,  and  the  inlaid 
chairs,  as  I  looked  at  them  more  closely,  proved 
to  be  only  clever  imitations  of  the  real  thing  — 
the  painted  and  gilded  paraphernalia  of  the  stage. 
This  room,  I  have  since  thought,  was  probably 
the  green-room  of  the  Italian  Opera  House,  fitted 
up  for  the  occasion,  from  "  the  properties." 

We  took  our  places  at  the  table,  and  the  wine 
went  round ;  jests  flew  from  lip  to  lip,  like 


Out  of  his  Head.  77 

mocking-birds,  and  "  short  swallow-flights  of 
song  "  from  the  mouths  of  mysterious  women ; 
while  a  band  of  unseen  musicians,  somewhere 
behind  a  screen,  now  and  then  broke  into  a 
delirious  waltz. 

All  this  was  so  bizarre,  so  like  an  ingenious 
dream,  that  I  expected  every  moment  to  wake  up, 
and  find  myself  sitting  on  our  verandah,  at  home, 
a  burnt-out  segar  at  my  feet,  and  the  fountain 
laughing  in  the  garden. 

Howland  alone  was  silent  and  distrait,  emptying 
glass  after  glass  with  the  mechanical  air  of  an 
automaton. 

Opposite  him  sat  a  bleak,  attenuated  man  clad 
in  black  silk  tights,  the  breast  and  hips  of  which 
were  trimmed  with  strips  of  white  cloth,  in  painful 
imitation  of  a  skeleton.  His  hands  were  long  and 
bony,  and  needed  no  artifice  to  make  them  seem 
as  if  they  belonged  to  the  pasteboard  death's-head 
that  screened  his  features. . 

After  some  minutes,  I  became  aware  that  this 
singular  person  regulated  his  motions  by  those  of 


78  Out  of  his  Head. 

Howland,  resting  his  head  on  one  hand,  and 
draining  his  glass  at  the  same  time  Mark  drank. 
I  wondered  if  Howland  noticed  him. 

"  A  toast !  "  cried  the  Harlequin,  springing  up 
in  his  chair,  and  resting  one  parti-colored  foot  on 
the  edge  of  the  table. 

We  all  stood,  excepting  the  Red  Domino,  with 
fresh  glasses.  I  did  not  hear  what  the  toast  was, 
for  clink  !  went  a  glass  ;  and  the  sharp  splinters 
sparkled  on  the  cloth. 

"  The  queen  has  dropt  her  goblet,''  said  Rose 
Bonbon* 

"  Then  she  must  sing  us  a  song  to  take  the 
sound  out  of  our  ears,"  cried  the  Friar. 

"  A  penalty,  a  penalty  !  " 

*'  A  song  !  "  shrieked  a  dozen  voices. 

The  Red  Domino  rose  slowly  from  the  fauteuil, 
and  the  voice  which  I  had  longed  to  hear  again, 
issued  tremulously  from  beneath  the  chin-curtain 
of  the  mask.  I  watched  her  eyes  as  she  sang  : 

* 

"  DalP  imo  del  mio  core 
Sorse  una  sol  prece. 


Out  of  his  Head.  79 

Che  1'  idol  mio  ammiri, 
Che  io  1'  ammiri,  e  muoia." 

Here  the  skeleton-man  leaned  heavily  against 
the  table,  and  Rowland  smiled  —  but  such  a  bitter 
smile.  He  had  won  the  drinkino-  match  ! 

o 

Two  maskers  carried  the  mime,  who  had  merely 
fainted,  to  an  adjoining  room. 

"  That  was  the  cantatrice's  husband,"  said  the 
Blue  Lady  to  me,  in  a  whisper, 

"  Her  husband  ?  Good  heavens  !  see  how 
coolly  she  takes  it !  " 

"  Yes.     La  Heine  does  n't  worship  him." 

"No?" 

"  The  Cholera,"  said  the  Harlequin. 

"  The  dark  Death,"  said  Hamlet,  "  <  a  little 
more  than  kin  and  less  than  kind  ! '  " 

"  The  song,  give  us  the  song  !  "  cried  a  man, 
covered  from  head  to  feet  with  spangles,  looking 
as  if  he  had  just  been  dipt  into  a  bath  of  quick 
silver. 

"  The  song,  the  song  !  "  shrieked  the  voices. 

The  Red  Domino  had  not  changed  her  position 


80  Out  of  his  Head, 

during  this  scene,  but  stood  there  like  a  statue 
carved  out  of  a  boulder  of  red  chalk-stone. 

Rowland,  with  his  face  deathly  pale,  bent 
forward  to  listen. 

Again  that  sweet  voice,  lower  and  more  tremu 
lous  than  before,  stole  into  the  air. 

It  was  not  fancy  this  time,  her  eyes  burned 
throuo'h  the  mask  at  Mark  : 

O 

"  Alfin,  com'  alma  peccatrice, 
Alle  porte  del  ciel  io  giungo, 
Non  per  entrar  cogli  eletti, 
Oh  !   giammai  .  .  ,  .  soltanto  per  morir." 

Rowland  rose  wildly  from  his  chair,  and  stagger 
ing  toward  the  Red  Domino,  sunk  down  at  her  feet. 

O 

u  I  am  dying,"  said  Rowland,  "  but  I  know 
that  voice  !  My  heart  is  breaking  with  it !  " 

With  an  air  of  love  and  remorse,  she  stooped 
over  Mark,  and  folded  him  in  her  arms. 

"  Your  face  !  "  said  Rowland.  •"  Your  face, 
quick  !  Let  me  look  on  your  face  !  " 

Then  Celeste  tore  off  the  mask  and  rested  her 
head  on  his  bosom.  Then  she  sobbed  and 
moaned  —  the  soul  that  was  within  her. 


Out  of  his  Head,  81 

So  she  comes  to  me  out  of  the  gray  mists  and 
shadows  of  the  Past  —  the  woman  who  found  her 
heart  when  it  was  somewhat  late. 

This  was  years  ago.  But  every  Mardi  Gras,  it 
is  said,  a  sorrowful  queenly  lady,  robed  from  foot 
to  forehead  in  deep  crimson,  glides  in  among  the 
gayer  maskers,  and  whenever  she  appears,  the 
laugh  dies  on  the  lip. 


Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  DANSEUSE. 


ensuing  summer  I  returned 
North  depressed  by  the  result  of 
my  sojourn  in  New  Orleans.  It 

T  VU2ci2FQr*\  was  on^Y  by  devoting  myself,  body 

^^/y?^J^y  . 

t>     6StiSnft' "»  v>and  soul,  to  some  intricate  pursuit 

that  I  could  dispel  the  gloom  which 
threatened  to  serious]y  affect  my 
health. 

The  MOON-APPARATUS  was  insufficient  to  dis 
tract  me.  I  turned  my  attention  to  mechanism, 
and  was  successful  in  producing  several  wonderful 
pieces  of  work,  among  which  may  be  mentioned 
a  brass  butterfly,  made  to  flit  so  naturally  in  the 
air  as  to  deceive  the  most  acute  observers.  The 


Out  of  his  Head,  83 

motion  of  the  toy,  the  soft  down  and  gorgeous 
damask-stains  on  the  pinions,  were  declared  quite 
perfect.  The  thing  is  rusty  and  wont  work  now  ; 
I  tried  to  set  it  going  for  Dr.  Pendegrast,  the 
other  day. 

A  manikin  musician,  playing  a  few  exquisite 
airs  on  a  miniature  piano,  likewise  excited  much 
admiration.  This  figure  bore  such  an  absurd, 
unintentional  resemblance  to  a  gentleman  who 
has  since  distinguished  himself  as  a  pianist,  that 
I  presented  the  trifle  to  a  lady  admirer  of 
Gottschalk. 

I  also  became  a  taxidermist,  and  stuffed  a  pet 
bird  with  springs  and  diminutive  flutes,  causing  it 
to  hop  and  carol,  in  its  cage,  with  great  glee. 
But  my  master-piece  was  a  nimble  white  mouse, 
with  pink  eyes,  that  could  scamper  up  the  walls, 
and  masticate  bits  of  cheese  in  an  extraordi 
nary  style.  My  chamber-maid  shrieked,  and 
jumped  up  on  a  chair,  whenever  I  let  the  little 
fellow  loose  in  her  presence.  One  day,  unhappily, 
the  mouse,  while  nosing  around  after  its  favorite 


84  Out  of  his  Head, 

aliment,  got  snapt  in  a  rat-trap  that  yawned  in 
the  closet,  and  I  was  never  able  to  readjust  the 
machinery. 

Engaged  in  these  useful  inventions,  —  useful, 
because  no  exercise  of  the  human  mind  is  ever  in 
vain,  —  my  existence  for  two  or  three  years  was 
so  placid  and  uneventful,  I  began  to  hope  that  the 
shadows  which  had  followed  on  my  path  from 
childhood,  making  me  unlike  other  men,  had 
returned  to  that  unknown  world  where  they 
properly  belong ;  but  the  Fates  were  only  taking 
breath  to  work  out  more  surely  the  problem  of  my 
destiny.  I  must  keep  nothing  back.  I  must 
extenuate  nothing. 

I  am  about  to  lift  the  vail  of  mystery  which, 
for  nearly  seven  years,  has  shrouded  the  story  of 
Mary  Ware ;  and  though  I  lay  bare  my  own 
weakness,  or  folly,  or  what  you  will,  I  do  not 
shrink  from  the  unvailing. 

No  hand  but  mine  can  now  perform  the  task. 
There  was,  indeed,  a  man  who  might  have  done 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  85 

this  better  than  I.  But  he  went  his  way  ir. 
silence.  I  like  a  man  who  can  hold  his  tongue. 

On  the  corner  of  Clarke  and  Crandall  streets, 
in  New  York,  stands  a  dingy  brown  frame-house. 
It  is  a  very  old  house,  as  its  obsolete  style  of 
structure  would  tell  you.  It  has  a  morose,  un 
happy  look,  though  once  it  must  have  been  a 
blythe  mansion.  I  think  that  houses,  like  human 
beings,  ultimately  become  dejected  or  cheerful, 
according  to  their  experience.  The  very  air  of 
some  front-doors  tells  their  history. 

This  house,  I  repeat,  has  a  morose,  unhappy 
look,  at  present,  and  is  tenanted  by  an  incalculable 
number  of  Irish  families,  while  a  picturesque 
junk-shop  is  in  full  blast  in  the  basement ;  but  at 
the  time  of  which  I  write,  it  was  a  second-rate 
boarding-place,  of  the  more  respectable  sort,  and 
rather  largely  patronized  by  poor,  but  honest, 
literary  men,  tragic-actors,  members  of  the  chorus, 
and  such  like  gilt  people. 

My  apartments  on  Crandall  street,  were  oppo 
site  this  building,  to  which  my  attention  was 


86  Out  of  his  Head, 

directed  soon  after  taking  possession  of  the  rooms, 
by  the  discovery  of  the  following  facts  : 

First,  that  a  charming  lady  lodged  on  the 
second-floor  front,  and  sang  like  a  canary  every 
morning. 

Second,  that  her  name  was  Mary  Ware. 

Third,  that  Mary  Ware  was  a  danseuse,  and 
had  two  lovers  —  only  two. 

Fourth,  that  Mary  Ware  and  the  page,  who, 
years  before,  had  drawn  Rowland  and  myself  into 
that  fatal  masquerade,  were  the  same  person. 

This  last  discovery  moved  me  strangely,  aside 
from  the  fact  that  her  presence  opened  an  old 
wound.  The  power  which  guides  all  the  actions 
of  my  life  constrained  me  to  watch  this  woman. 

Mary  Ware  was  the  leading-lady  at  The 
Olympic.  Night  after  night  found  me  in  the 
parquette.  I  can  think  of  nothing  with  which  to 
compare  the  airiness  and  utter  abandon  of  her 
dancing.  She  seemed  a  part  of  the  music.  She 
was  one  of  beauty's  best  thoughts,  then.  Her 
glossy  gold  hair  reached  down  to  her  waist. 


Out  of  his  Head.  87 

shading  one  of  those  mobile  faces  which  remind 
you  of  'Guide's  picture  of  Beatrix  Cenci  — 
there  was  something  so  fresh  and  enchanting  in 
the  mouth.  Her  luminous,  almond  eyes,  looking 
out  winningly  from  under  their  drooping  fringes, 
were  at  once  the  delight  and  misery  of  young  men. 

Ah  !  you  were  distracting  in  your  nights  of 
triumph,  when  the  bouquets  nestled  about  your 
elastic  ankles,  and  the  kissing  of  your  castanets 
made  the  pulses  leap  ;  but  I  remember  when  you 
lay  on  your  cheerless  bed,  in  the  blank  daylight, 
with  the  glory  faded  from  your  brow,  and  '•  none 
so  poor  as  to  do  you  reverence." 

Then  I  stooped  down  and  kissed  you  —  but 
not  till  then. 

Mary  Ware  was  to  me  a  finer  study  than  her 
lovers.  She  had  two,  as  I  have  said.  One  of 
them  was  commonplace  enough  —  well-made,  well- 
dressed,  shallow,  flaccid.  Nature,  when  she  gets 
out  of  patience  with  her  best  works,  throws  off 
such  things  by  the  gross,  instead  of  swearing. 


88  Out  of  his  Head. 

He  was  a  lieutenant,  in  the  navy  I  think.  The 
gilt  button  has  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast. 

The  other  was  a  man  of  different  mould,  and 
interested  me  in  a  manner  for  which  I  could  not 
then  account.  The  first  time  I  saw  him  did  not 
seem  like  tfte  first  time.  But  this,  perhaps,  is  an 
after-impression. 

Every  line  of  his  countenance  denoted  char 
acter;  a  certain  capability,  I  mean,  but  whether 
for  good  or  evil  was  not  so  plain.  I  should  have 
called  him  handsome,  but  for  a  noticeable  scar 
which  ran  at  right  angles  across  his  mouth,  giving 
him  a  sardonic  expression  when  he  smiled. 

His  frame  •  might  have  set  an  anatomist  wild 
with  delight  —  six  feet  two,  deep-chested,  knitted 
with  tendons  of  steel.  Not  at  all  a  fellow  to 
amble  on  plush  carpets. 

"  Some  day,"  thought  I,  as  I  saw  him  stride 
bv  the  house,  "  he  will  throw  the  little  Lieutenant 
out  of  that  second-story  window." 

I  cannot  tell,  to  this  hour,  which  of  those  two 
men  Mary  Ware  loved  most  —  for  I  think  she 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  89 

loved  them  both.  A  woman's  heart  was  the 
insolvable  charade  with  which  the  Sphinx  nipt 
the  Egyptians.  I  was  never  good  at  puzzles. 

The  flirtation,  however,  was  food  enough  for 
the  whole  neighborhood.  But  faintly  did  the 
gossips  dream  of  the  strange  drama  tj^at  was 
being  shaped  out,  as  compactly  as  a  tragedy  of 
Sophocles,  under  their  noses. 

They  were  very  industrious  in  tearing  Mary 
Ware's  good  name  to  pieces.  Some  laughed  at 
the  gay  Lieutenant,  and  some  at  Julius  Kenneth  ; 
but  they  all  amiably  united  in  condemning  Mary 
\\  are. 

This,  possibly,  was  strictly  proper,  for  Mary 
Ware  was  a  woman :  the  woman  is  always  to 
blame  in  such  cases ;  the  man  is  hereditarily  and 
constitutionally  in  the  right ;  the  woman  is  born  in 
the  wrong.  That  is  the.  world's  verdict,  that  is  what 
Justice  says ;  but  we  should  weigh  the  opinion  of 
Justice  with  care,  since  she  is  represented,  by 
poets  and  sculptors,  not  satirically,  I  trust,  as  a 
blind  Woman. 


90  Out  of  his  Head. 

It  was  so  from  the  beginning.  Was  not  the 
first  lady  of  the  world  the  cause  of  all  our  woe  ? 
I  feel  safe  in  leaving  it  to  a  jury  of  gentle  dames. 
But  from  ail  such  judges,  had  I  a  sister  on  trial 
good  Lord  deliver  her. 

This^  state  of  affairs  had  continued  for  five  or 
six  months,  when  it  was  reported  that  Julius 
Kenneth  and  Mary  Ware  were  affianced.  The 
Lieutenant  was  less  frequently  seen  in  Crandall 
street,  and  Julius  waited  upon  Mary's  footsteps 
with  the  fidelity  of  a  shadow. 

Mrs.  Grundy  was  somewhat  appeased. 

Yet— though  Mary  went  to  the  Sunday  con 
certs  with  Julius  Kenneth,  she  still  wore  the 
Lieutenant's  roses  in  her  bosom. 

Mrs.  Grundy  said  that* 


Out  of  Ms  Head, 


91 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A  MYSTERY. 


NE  drizzly  November  morning  — 
how  well  I  remember  it !  —  I  was 
awakened  by  a  series  qf  nervous 
raps  on  my  bed-room  door.  The 
noise  startled  me  from  an  un 
pleasant  dream. 

"  O,  sir !  "  cried  the  chamber 
maid  on   the    landing,    "  There's 
been  a  dreadful  time  across  the  street.     They  've 
gone  and  killed  Mary  Ware  !  " 
"  Ah  !  " 

That   was   all    I    could   say.     Cold   drops   of 
perspiration  stood  on  my  forehead. 
1   looked  at  my  watch ;  it  was  eleven  o'clock ; 


92  Out  of  his  Head. 

I  had  over-slept  myself,  having  sat  up  late  the 
previous  night. 

I  dressed  hastily,  and,  without  waiting  for 
breakfast,  pushed  my  way  through  the  murky 
crowd  that  had  collected  in  front  of  the  house 
opposite,  and  passed  up  stairs,  unquestioned. 

When  I  entered  the  room,  there  were  six  people 
present :  a  thick-set  gentleman,  in  black,  with  a 
bland  professional  air,  a  physician  ;  two  policemen  ; 
Adelaide  Woods,  an  actress;  Mrs.  Marston,  the 
landlady  ;  and  Julius  Kenneth. 

In  the  centre  of  the  chamber,  on  the  bed,  lay 
the  body  of  Mary  Ware  —  as  pale  as  Seneca's 
wife. 

I  shall  never  forget  it.  The  corse  haunted  me 
for  years  afterwards,  the  dark  streaks  under  the 
eyes,  and  the  wavy  hair  streaming  over  the 
pillow  —  the  dead  gold  hair.  I  stood  by  her  for 

moment,  and  turned  down  the  counterpane, 
which  was  drawn  up  closely  to  the  chin. 

"  There  was  that  across  her  throat 
"Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see.'* 


Out  of  liis  Head.  93 

At  the  head  of  the  bed  sat  Julius  Kenneth, 
bending  over  the  icy  hand  which  he  held  in  his 
own.  He  was  kissing  it. 

The  gentleman  in  black  was  conversing  in 
undertones  with  Mrs.  Marston,  who  every  now 
and  then  glanced  furtively  toward  Mary  Ware. 

The  two  policemen  were  examining  .the  doors, 
closets  and  windows  of  the  apartment  with, 
obviously,  little  success. 

There  was  no  fire  in  the  air-tight  stove,  but  the 
place  was  suffocatingly  close.  I  opened  a  window, 
and  leaned  against  the  casement  to  get  a  breath 
of  fsesh  air. 

The  physician  approached  me.  I  muttered 
something  to  him  indistinctly,  for  I  was  partly 
sick  with  the  peculiar  mouldy  smell  that  pervaoed 
the  room. 

"  Yes,"  he  -began,  scrutinizing  me,  "  the  affair 
looks  very  perplexing,  as  you  remark.  Profes 
sional  man,  sir  ?  No  ?  Bless  me  !  —  beg  pardon. 
Never  in  my  life  saw  anything  that  looked  so 
exceedingly  like  nothing.  Thought,  at  first,  'twas 


94  Out  of  his  Head. 

a  clear  case  of  suicide  —  door  locked,  key  on  the 
inside,  place  undisturbed ;  but  then  we  find  no 
instrument  with  which  the  subject  could  have 
inflicted  that  wound  on  the  neck.  Queer.  Party 
must  have  escaped  up  chimney.  But  how  ? 
Don't  know.  The  windows  are  at  least  thirty 
feet  from  the  ground.  It  would  be  impossible  for 
a  person  to  jump  that  far,  even  if  he  could  clear 
the  iron  railing  below.  Which  he  could'nt. 
Disagreeable  things  to  jump  on,  those  spikes,  sir. 
Must  have  been  done  with  a  sharp  knife.  Queer, 
very.  Party  meant  to  make  sure  work  of  it. 
The  carotid  neatly  severed,  upon  my  word." 

The  medical  gentleman  went  on  in  this  monolo- 
guic  style  for  fifteen  minutes,  during  which  time 
Kenneth  did  not  raise  his  lips  from  Mary's  fingers. 

Approaching  the  bed,  I  spoke  to  him ;  but  he 
only  shook  his  head  in  reply. 

I  understood  his  grief. 

After  regaining  my  chamber,  I  sat  listlessly  foi 
three  or  four  hours,  gazing  into  the  grate.  The 
twilight  flitted  in  from  the  street ;  but  I  did  not 


Out  of  his  Head,  95 

heed  it.  A  face  among  the  coals  fascinated  me. 
It  came  and  went  and  came.  Now  I  saw  a  cavern 
hung  with  lurid  stalactites  ;  now  a  small  Vesuvius 
vomiting  smoke  and  flame  ;  now  a  bridge  spanning 
some  tartarean  gulf;  then  these  crumbled,  each 
in  its  turn,  and  from  out  the  heated  fragments 
peered  the  one  inevitable  face. 

The  Evening1  Mirror,  of  that  day,  gave  the 
following  detailed  report  of  the  inquest : 

"  This  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  Mary  Ware, 
the  celebrated  danseuse,  was  found  dead  in  her 
chamber,  at  her  late  residence  on  the  corner  of 
Clarke  and  Crandall  streets.  The  perfect  order 
of  the  room,  and  the  fact  that  the  door  was  locked 
on  the  inside,  have  induced  many  to  believe  that 
the  poor  girl  was  the  victim  of  her  own  rashness. 
But  we  cannot  think  so.  That  the  door  was 
fh Droned  on  the  inner  side,  proves  nothing  except, 
indeed,  that  the  murderer  was  hidden  in  the 
apartment.  That  the  room  gave  no  evidence  of  a 
struggle  having  taken  place,  is  also  an  insignificant 


96  Out  of  his  Head, 

point.  Two  men,  or  even  one,  grappling  suddenly 
with  the  deceased,  wno  was  a  slight  woman,  would 
have  prevented  any  great  resistance.  The  de 
ceased  was  dressed  in  a  ballet-costume,  and  was, 
as  w^e  conjecture,  murdered  directly  after  her 
return  from  the  theatre.  On  a  chair  near  the 
bed,  lay  several  fresh  bouquets,  and  a  water-proof 
cloak  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  over 
her  dancing-dress,  on  coming  home  from  the 
theatre  at  night.  No  weapon  whatever  was  found 
on  the  premises.  We  give  below  all  the  material 
testimony  elicited  by  the  coroner.  It  explains 
little. 

"  Josephine  Marston  deposes :  I  keep  a  board 
ing  house  at  No.  131  Crandall  street.  Miss  Ware 
has  boarded  with  me  for  the  past  two  years.  Has 
always  borne  a  good  character  as  far  as  I  know. 
I  do  not  think  she  had  many  visitors  ;  certainly  no 
male  visitors,  excepting  a  Lieutenant  King,  and 
Mr.  Kenneth  to  whom  she  was  engaged.  I  do 
not  know  when  King  was  last  at  the  house ;  not 
within  three  days,  I  am  confident.  Deceased  told 


Out  of  his  Head,  97 

me  that  he  had  gone  away.  I  did  not  see  her 
last  night  when  she  came  home.  The  hall-door  is 
never  locked ;  each  of  the  boarders  has  a  latch 
key.  The  last  time  I  saw  Miss  Ware  was  just 
before  she  went  to  the  theatre,  when  she  asked  me 
to  call  her  at  eight  o'clock  (this  morning)  as  she 
had  promised  to  walk  with  c  Jules,'  meaning  Mr. 
Kenneth.  I  knocked  at  the  door  nine  or  ten 
times,  but  received  no  answer.  Then  I  grew 
frightened  and  called  one  of  the  lady  boarders, 
Miss  Woods,  who  helped  me  to  force  the  lock. 
The  key  fell  on  the  floor  inside  as  we  pushed 
against  the  door.  Mary  Ware  was  lying  on  the 
bed,  dressed.  Some  matches  were  scattered  under 
the  gas-burner  by  the  bureau.  The  room  pre 
sented  the  same  appearance  it  does  now. 

"  Adelaide  Woods  deposes :  I  am  an  actress  by 
profession.  I  occupy  the  room  next  to  that  of  the 
deceased.  Have  known  her  twelve  months.  It 
was  half-past  eleven  when  she  came  home;  she 
stopped  in  my  chamber  for  perhaps  three-quarters 
of  an  hour.  The  call-boy  of  The  Olympic  usually 


98  Out  of  Ms  Head. 

accompanies  her  home  from  the  theatre  when  she 
is  alone.  I  let  her  in.  Deceased  had  misplaced 
her  night-key.  The  partition  between  our  rooms 
is  of  brick ;  but  I  do  not  sleep  soundly,  and  should 
have  heard  any  unusual  noise.  Two  weeks  ago, 
Miss  Ware  told  me  she  was  to  be  married  to  Mr. 
Kenneth  in  January  next.  The  last  time  I  saw 
them  together  was  the  day  before  yesterday.  I 
assisted  Mrs  Marston  in  breaking  open  the  door. 
[Describes  the  position  of  the  body,  etc.,  etc.] 

"  Here  the  call-boy  was  summoned,  and  testified 
to  accompanying  the  deceased  home  the  night 
before.  He  came  as  far  as  the  steps  with  her. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  woman ;  could  not 
swear  it  was  Miss  Woods,  though  he  knows  her 
by  sight.  The  night  was  dark,  and  there  was  no 
lamp  burning  in  the  entry. 

•'  Julius  Kenneth  deposes :  I  am  a  master- 
machinist.  Reside  at  No.  —  Forsythe  street. 
Miss  Ware  was  my  cousin.  We  were  engaged 
to  be  married  next  —  [Here  the  witness'  voice 
failed  him.]  The  last  time  I  saw  her  was  on 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  99 

Wednesday  morning,  on  which  occasion  we  walked 
out  together.  I  did  not  leave  my  room  last 
evening :  was  confined  by  a  severe  cold.  A 
Lieutenant  King  used  to  visit  my  cousin  fre 
quently ;  it  created  considerable  talk  in  the 
neighborhood :  I  did  not  like  it,  and  requested 
her  to  break  the  acquaintance.  She  informed  me, 
Wednesday,  that  King  had  been  ordered  to  some 
foreign  station,  and  would  trouble  me  no  more 
Was  excited  at  the  time,  hinted  at  being  tired  of 
living ;  then  laughed,  and  was  gayer  than  she  had 
been  for  weeks.  Deceased  was  subject  to  fits  of 
depression.  She  had  engaged  to  walk  with  me 
this  morning  at  eight.  When  I  reached  Clark 
street  I  learned  that  she  —  [Here  the  witness, 
overcome  by  emotion,  was  allowed  to  retire.] 

"  Dr.  Wren  deposes :  [This  gentleman  was 
very  learned  and  voluble,  and  had  to  be  sup 
pressed  several  times  by  the  coroner.  We  furnish 
a  brief  synopsis  of  his  testimony.]  I  was  called 
in  to  view  the  body  of  the  deceased.  A  deep 
incision  on  the  throat,  two  inches  below  the  left 


100  Out  of  his  Head. 

ear,  severing  the  left  common  carotid  and  the 
internal  jugular  vein,  had  been  inflicted  with  some 
sharp  instrument.  Such  a  wound  would,  in  my 
opinion,  produce  death  almost  instantaneously. 
The  body  bore  no  other  signs  of  violence.  A  slight 
mark,  almost  indistinguishable,  in  fact,  extended 
from  the  upper  lip  toward  the  right  nostril  — 
some  hurt,  I  suppose,  received  in  infancy.  De 
ceased  must  have  been  dead  a  number  of  hours, 
the  rigor  mortis  having  already  supervened, 
etc.,  etc. 

"  Dr.  Ceccarini  corroborated  the  above  testi 
mony. 

"The -night- watchman  and  seven  other  persons 
were  then  placed  on  the  stand;  but  their  state 
ments  threw  no  fresh  light  on  the  case. 

"  The  situation  of  Julius  Kenneth,  the  lover  of 
the  ill-fated  girl,  draws  forth  the  deepest  com 
miseration.  Miss  Ware  was  twenty-four  years 
of  age. 

"  Who  the  criminal  is,  and  what  could  have 
led  to  the  perpetration  of  the  cruel  act,  are  ques- 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  101 

tions  which,  at  present,  threaten  to  baffle  the 
Sagacity  of  the  police.  If  such  deeds  can  be 
committed  with  impunity  in  a  crowded  city,  like 
this,  who  is  safe  from  the  assassin's  steel  ?  " 


102  Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THOU   ART    THE    MAN. 

COULD  hut  smile  on   reading  all 
this  serious  nonsense. 

After  breakfast,  the  next  morn 
ing,  I  made  my  toilet  with  extreme 
care,  and  presented  myself  at  the 
sheriff's  office. 

Two  gentlemen  who  were  sitting 
at  a  table,  busy  with  papers,  started 
nervously  to  their  feet,  as  I  announced  myself.  I 
bowed  very  calmly  to  the  sheriff,  and  said, 

"lam  the  person  who  murdered  Mary  Ware  !  " 

Of  course  I  was  instantly  arrested  ;    and  that 

evening,   in  jail,  I  had  the  equivocal  pleasure  of 

reading  these  paragraphs  among  the  police  items 

of  the  Mirror: 


Out  of  his  Head,  103 

"  The  individual  who  murdered  the  ballet-girl, 
in  the  night  of  the  third  inst.,  in  a  house  on 
Crandall  street,  surrendered  himself  to  the  sheriff 
this  forenoon. 

"  He  gave  his  name  as  Paul  Lynde,  and  resides 
opposite  the  place  where  the  tragedy  was  enacted. 
He  is  a  man  of  medium  stature,  has  restless  gray 
eyes,    chestnust   hair,   and  a   supernaturally   pale 
countenance.      He   seems   a   person   of  excellent 
address,  is   said   to  be  wealthy,   and  nearly  con 
nected  with  an  influential  New  England  family. 
Notwithstanding  his  gentlemanly  manner,  there  is 
that  about  him  which  would  lead  one  to  select  him 
from  out  a  thousand,  as  a  man  of  cool  and  despe 
rate  character. 

"  Mr.  Lynde's  voluntary  surrender  is  not  the 
least  astonishing  feature  of  this  affair ;  for,  had  he 
preserved  silence  he  would,  beyond  a  doubt,  have 
escaped  even  suspicion.  The  murder  was  planned 
and  executed  with  such  deliberate  skill,  that  there 
is  little  or  no  evidence  to  complicate  him.  In 
truth,  there  is  no  evidence  against  him,  excepting 


104  Out  of  his  Head, 

his  own  confession,  which  is  meagre  and  confusing 
enough.  He  freely  acknowledges  the  crime,  but 
stubbornly  refuses  to  enter  into  any  details.  He 
expresses  a  desire  to  be  hanged  immediately  !  ! 

"  How  Mr.  Lynde  entered  the  chamber,  and 
by  what  means  he  left  it,  after  committing  the 
deed,  and  why  he  cruelly  killed  a  lady  with 
whom  he  had  had  (as  we  gather  from  the  testi 
mony,)  no  previous  acquaintance,  —  are  enigmas 
which  still  perplex  the  public  mind,  and  will  not 
let  curiosity  sleep.  These  facts,  however,  will 
probably  be  brought  to  light  during  the  impending 
trial.  In  the  meantime,  we  await  the  denouement 
with  interest." 


Out  of  ids  Head, 


105 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


PAUL'S  CONFESSION. 

« 

N  the  afternoon  following  this 
disclosure,  the  door  of  my  cell 
'turned  on  its  hinges,  and  Julius 
Kenneth  entered. 

In  his  presence  I  ought  to  have 
trembled ;    but  I   was    calm  and 
collected.     He,  feverish  and  dan 
gerous. 
"  You  received  my  note  ?  " 
"  Yes ;  and  have  come  here,  as  you  requested." 
I  waved  him  to  a  chair,  which  he  refused  to 
take.     Stood  leaning  on  the  back  of  it. 

"  You   of  course    know,    Mr.   Kenneth,  that  I 

have  refused  to  reveal  the  circumstances  connected 
5* 


106  Out  of  liis  Head. 

with  the  death  of  Mary  Ware  ?  I  wished  to 
make  the  confession  to  you  alone," 

He  regarded  me  for  a  moment  from  beneath  his 
shaggy  eyebrows. 

"Well?" 

"  But  even  to  you  I  will  assign  no  reason  for 
the  course  I  pursued.  It  was  necessary  that  Mary 
Ware  should  die." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  decided  that  she  should  die  in  her  chamber, 
and  to  that  end  I  purloined  her  night-key. 

Julius  Kenneth  looked  through  and  through  me, 
as  I  spoke. 

"  On  Friday  night  after  she  had  gone  to  the 
theatre,  I  entered  the  hall-door  by  means  of  the 
key,  and  stole  unobserved  to  her  room,  where  I 
secreted  myself  under  the  bed,  or  in  that  small 
clothes-press  near  the  stove  —  I  forget  which. 
Sometime  between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock, 
Mary  Ware  returned.  While  she  was  in  the  act 
of  lighting  the  gas,  I  pressed  a  handkerchief, 
saturated  with  chloroform,  over  her  mouth.  You 


Out  of  his  Head,  107 

know  the  effect  of  chloroform  ?  I  will,  at  this 
point  spare  you  further  detail,  merely  remarking 
that  I  threw  my  gloves  and  the  handkerchief  in 
the  stove ;  but  I'm  afraid  there  was  not  fire 
enough  to  consume  them." 

Kenneth  walked  up  and  down  the  cell  greatly 
agitated ;  then  seated  himself  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed 

"  Curse  you  !  " 

"  Are  you  listening  to  me,  Mr.  Kenneth  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  " 

"  I  extinguished  the  light,  and  proceeded  to 
make  my  escape  from  the  room,  which  I  did  in  a 
manner  so  simple  that  the  detectives,  through 
their  desire  to  ferret  out  wonderful  things,  will 
never  discover  it,  unless,  indeed,  you  betray  me. 
The  night,  you  will  recollect,  was  foggy  ;  it  was 
impossible  to  discern  an  object  at  four  yards  dis 
tance  —  this  was  fortunate  for  me.  I  raised  the 
window-sash  and  let  myself  out  cautiously,  hold 
ing  on  by  the  sill,  until  my  feet  touched  on  the 
moulding  which  caps  the  window  below.  I  then 


108  Out  of  his  Head, 

drew  down  the  sash.  By  standing  on  the  extreme 
left  of  the  cornice,  I  was  able  to  reach  the  tin 
water-spout  of  the  adjacent  building,  and  by  that 
I  descended  to  the  sidewalk." 

The  man  glowered  at  me  like  a  tiger,  his  eyes 
green  and  golden  with  excitement^  I  have  since 
wondered  that  he  did  not  tear  me  to  pieces. 

"  On  gaining  the  street,"  I  continued  coolly, 
"  I  found  that  I  had  brought  the  knife  with  me. 
It  should  have  been  left  in  the  chamber  —  it 
•would  have  given  the  whole  thing  the  aspect  of 
suicide.  It  was  too  late  to  repair  the  blunder,  so 
•I  threw  the  knife  —  " 

"  Into  the  river !  "  exclaimed  Kenneth,  involun 
tarily. 

And  then  I  smiled. 

"  How  did  you  know  it  was  I !  "  he  shrieked. 

"  Hush  !  they  will  overhear  you  in  the  corridor. 
It  was  as  plain  as  day.  I  knew  it  before  I  had 
been  five  minutes  in  the  room.  First,  because 
you  shrank  instinctively  from  the  corpse,  though 
you  seemed  to  be  caressing  it.  Secondly,  when  I 


Out  of  his  Head.  109 

looked  into  the  stove,  I  saw  a  glove  and  hand 
kerchief,  partly  consumed ;  and  then  I  instantly  ac 
counted  for  the  faint  close  smell  which  had  affected 
me  before  the  room  was  ventilated.  It  was  chloro 
form.  Thirdly,  when  I  went  to  open  the  win 
dow,  I  noticed  that  the  paint  was  scraped  off  the 
brackets  which  held  the  spout  to  the  next  house. 
This  conduit  had  been  newly  painted  two  days 
previously  —  I  watched  the  man  at  work ;  the 
paint  on  the  brackets  was  thicker  than  anywhere 
else,  and  had  not  dried.  On  looking  at  your  feet, 
which  I  did  critically,  while  speaking  to  you,  I 
saw  that  the  leather  on.  the  inner  side  of  each  boot 
was  slightly  chafed,  paint-marked.  It  is  a  way 
of  mine  to  put  this  and  that  together !  " 

"  If  you  intend  to  betray  me  —  " 

"  O,  no,  but  I  don't,  or  I  should  not  be  here  — 
alone  with  you.  I  am,  as  you  may  allow,  not 
quite  a  fool." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  are  as  subtle  as  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  would  n't  mention  him." 

"  Who  ?  " 


110  Out  of  Ms  Head, 

"  The  devil." 

Kenneth  mused. 

"  May  I  ask,  Mr.  Lynde,  what  you  intend 
to  do  ?  " 

"  Certainly  —  remain  here." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Kenneth  with 
an  air  of  perplexity. 

"  If  you  will  listen  patiently,  you  shall  learn 
why  /  have  acknowledged  this  deed,  why  I  would 
bear  the  penalty.  I  believe  there  are  vast,  intense 
sensations  from  which  we  are  excluded,  by  the 
conventional  fear  of  a  certain  kind  of  death. 
Now,  this  pleasure,  this  ecstacy,  this  something, 
I  don't  know  what,  which  I  have  striven  for  all 
my  days,  is  known  only  to  a  privileged  few  — 
innocent  men,  who,  through  some  oversight  of  the 
law,  are  hanged  by  the  neck !  How  rich  is 
Nature  in  compensations  !  Some  men  are  born  to 
be  hung,  some  have  hanging  thrust  upon  them, 
and  some  (as  I  hope  to  do,)  achieve  hanging.  It 
appears  ages  since  I  commenced  watching  for  an 
opportunity  like  this.  Worlds  could  not  tempt 


Out  of  his  Head,  111 

me  to  divulge  your  guilt,  nor  could  worlds  have 
tempted  me  to  commit  your  crime,  for  a  man's 
conscience  should  be  at  ease  to  enjoy,  to  the 
utmost,  this  delicious  death  !  Our  interview  is  at 
at  end,  Mr.  Kenneth.  I  held  it  my  duty  to  say 
this  much  to  you." 

And  I  turned  my  back  on  him. 

"  One  word,  Mr.  Lynde." 

Kenneth  came  to  my  side,  and  laid  a  heavy 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  that  red  right  hand,  which 
all  the  tears  of  the  angels  cannot  make  white 
again. 

As  he  stood  there,  his  face  suddenly  grew  so 
familiar  to  me  —  yet  so  vaguely  familiar  —  that  I 
started.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  seen  such  a  face, 
somewhere,  in  my  dreams,  hundreds  of  years  ago. 
The  face  in  the  grate. 

"  Did  you  send  this  to  me  last  month  ?  "  asked 
Kenneth,  holding  up  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  was 
scrawled,  Watch  them  —  in  my  handwriting. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

Then  it  struck  me  that  these  few  thoughtless 


Out  of  his  Head. 


words,  winch  some  sinister  spirit  had  impelled  me 
to  write,  were  the  indirect  cause  of  the  whole 
catastrophe. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  watched 
them  !  "  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  I  shall  go  far 
from  here.  I  can  not,  I  will  not  die  yet.  Mary 
was  to  have  been  my  wife,  so  she  would  have 
hidden  her  shame  —  O  cruel  !  she,  my  own 
cousin,  and  we  the  last  two  of  our  race  !  Life  is 
not  sweet  to  me,  it  is  bitter,  bitter  ;  but  I  shall  live 
until  I  stand  front  to  front  with  him.  And  you  ? 
They  will  not  harm  you  —  you  are  a  madman  !  " 

Julius  Kenneth  was  gone  before  I  could  reply. 
The  cell  door  shut  him  out  forever  —  shut  him 
out  in  the  flesh.  His  spirit  was  not  so  easily 
exorcised. 

After  all,  it  was  a  wretched  fiasco.  Two 
officious  friends  of  mine,  who  had  played  chess 
with  me,  at  my  lodgings,  on  the  night  of  the  3rd, 
proved  an  alibi;  and  I  was  literally  turned  out 
of  the  Tombs  ;  for  I  insisted  on  being  executed. 


Out  of  liis  Head,  113 

Then  it  was  maddening  to  have  the  newspapers 
call  me  a  monomaniac. 

Ja  monomaniac? 

What  was  Pythagoras,  Newton,  Fulton  ?  Have 
not  the  great  original  lights  of  every  age,  been 
regarded  as  madmen  ?  Science,  like  religion,  has 
its  martyrs. 

Recent  surgical  discoveries  have,  I  believe,  sus 
tained  me  in  my  theory ;  or,  if  not,  they  ought  to 
have  done  so.  There  is  said  to  be  a  pleasure  in 
drowning.  Why  not  in  strangulation  ? 

In  another  field  of  science,  I  shall  probably 
have  full  justice  awarded  me  —  I  now  allude  to 
the  MOON-APPARATUS,  which  is  still  in  an  un 
finished  state,  but  progressing. 


114  Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  XV. 
A  LONG  JOUKNEY. 

ULIUS  KENNETH  disappeared 
from  the  city.  If  his  sudden  de 
parture  was  noticed,  it  excited  no 
comment.  No  one  suspected  the 
!  important  r61e  he  had  played  in 
the  tragedy;  and  the  public 
ceased  to  be  interested,  as  new 
events  crowded  it  off  the  stage. 
If  anybody  recalled  the  circumstance,  it  was  only 
to  wonder,  and  be  lost  in  the  impenetrable  dark 
ness  which  wrapt  the  story  of  Mary  Ware. 

I  think  that  twelve  months,  or  more,  had 
passed  when  I  first  got  tidings  of  Julius  Kenneth 
—  he  had  sailed  out  of  New  Bedford,  or  Marble- 
head,  or  somewhere,  in  a  whaling  ship. 


Out  of  liis  Head. 

For  two  years  I  lost  all  trace  of  him.  Then  he 
abruptly  turned  up  at  Panama,  on  the  way  to 
California. 

Then  I  heard  of  him  in  a  small  town  on  the 
coast  of  South  America. 

Then  in  India. 

Then  in  Switzerland. 

Afterwards  in  Egypt,  and  Syria. 

Always  wandering. 

Travellers,  when  they  came  home,  spoke  of  a 
tall  gaunt  man  that  went  stalking  about  the  ends 
of  the  earth. 

And  I  pictured  him  to  myself —  roaming  moodily 
from  place  to  place,  incessant,  -tireless,  urged  on ; 
and  ever  before  him  flew^a  frightened  little  Shape 
that  was  ready  to  drop  dead,  whenever  it  paused 
to  look  back,  and  saw  this  perpetual  man  at 
its  heels. 

And  the  man,  too,  I  fancied,  sometimes  looked 
back  —  and  then  he  pressed  on  more  rapidly. 
Always  wandering. 

Whether  Julius  Kenneth  ever  caught  up  with 


116  Out  of  his  Head. 

this  Shape,  or  even  if  he  were  ever  searching  for 
any  one  in  these  weary  journeys,  I  never  knew  : 
but  I  know  that  the  chief  trouble  of  my  life,  at 
that  time,  was  the  thought  of  this  mail  coming 
and  going,  so  ceaselessly. 

Always  wandering.  No  resting  spot.  No 
tranquil  fireside.  But  on  through  snow-storms. 

Whipped  by  the  sleet. 

Burnt  by  the  sun. 

Blinded  by  the  bronzed  dust  of  the  desert. 

I  used  to  lie  in  bed,  and  think  of  him,  — 
prowling  about  the  Pyramids,  in  the  gray  dawn ; 
or  standing  alone  in  the  Arctic  midnight ;  or 
gazing  up  at  the  crags  of  Ben  Nevis ;  or  among 
the  Caffre  huts ;  or  sitting  by  the  camp-fires  of 
the  Bedouins — as  fine  an  Arab  as  any  of  them. 
Then  he  drifted  down  reedy  rivers  in  more  boats, 
and  tossed  on  the  ocean  in  more  ships  than  were 
ever  built  in  the  world. 

I  was  unable,  even  for  an  hour,  to  rid  myself  of 
the  magnetic  influence  he  exerted  over  me.  I 
always  knew  where  he  was,  or  thought  I  knew. 


Out  of  his  Head.  1  [7 

If  I  took  up  a  volume  of  Travels,  this  man 
went  with  me  from  beginning  to  end  —  always 
the  hero  of  every  perilous  adventure,  always 
doing  everything  but  stopping. 

If,  by  any  chance,  I  looked  in  at  Matelli's  shop- 
window,  where  there  used  to  be  an  Alpine  land 
scape,  composed  of  confectionary,  Julius  Kenneth, 
in  chocolate,  was  always  sure  to  be  scaling  sugar 
precipices,  setting  my  hair  on  end  with  terror. 

He  became  an  irrepressible  torment  to  me,  an 
incubus  day  and  night,  I  am  not  clear  as  to  how 
many  years  this  lasted. 

But  one  summer  morning,  I  woke  up  refreshed 
from  a  dream  in  which  he  did  not  intrude.  A 
weight  seemed  lifted  off  my  mind  ;  a  cloud  gone  ; 
and  I  knew  that  Julius  Kenneth,  somewhere  and 
somehow,  had  ended  his  wanderings  —  or,  rather, 
that  he  had  started  on  a  very  long  pilgrimage ! 


US  Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
OUT  OF  His  HEAD. 

HE  thought  that  I  shall  be  insane, 
some  day,  that  I  shall  be  taken 
,from  the  restless  world  outside,  tc 
some  quiet  inner  retreat  where  I 
>can  complete  the  MOON- APPARA 
TUS,  and  fold  my  arms,  like  a  man 
who  has  fulfilled  his  mission  ;  the 
thought  of  this,  my  probable  des 
tiny,  is  rather  pleasant  to  me  than  otherwise. 

I  say  probable  destiny,  because  a  certain  trivial 
aberration  of  mind  has  been  handed  down  in  our 
family  from  generation  to  generation,  with  the 
dented  silver  bowl  in  which  Miles  Standish 
brewed  many  a  punch  in  the  olden  time.  This 


Out  of  Ms  Head.  119 

punch,  I  fancy,  must  have  somehow  got  into  the 
heads  of  our  family,  and  put  us  out.  Dr.  Pende- 
grast  thinks  so. 

At  all  events,  /  am  to  be  insane.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  that. 

But  not  yet. 

I  am  as  reasonable  and  matter-of-fact  as  a  man 
may  well  be.  This  house  in  which  I  pass  my 
days  and  nights,  writing,  is.  not  an  asylum :  this 
mullioned  window,  I  grant  you,  is  substantially 
barred ;  but  that  is  to  keep  mad  folks  out.  I  sit 
here,  by  the  grating,  and  watch  them  —  princes 
and  beggars,  going  up  and  down.  Am  I  to 
become  mellow  in  the  head  like  these  ? 

Ay ;  but  not  yet. 

The  man  who  brings  me  food  three  times  a  day, 
is  not  my  keeper ;  the  refined  and  cheerful 
gentlemen  with  whom  I  converse  in  our  high- 
walled  garden,  are  not  monomaniacs. 

There  is  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  occupies  an 
elegant  suit  of  drawing-rooms  on  my  left  —  the 
pathetic  dandy !  I  like  him,  though.  When  he 


Out  of  his  Head. 


takes  off  his  kids,  he  has  pluck.  There  is  the 
learned  Magliabechi,  on  my  right,  busy  with  Ins 
rare  folios.  There  is  the  moon-painter,  Claude 
Lorraine  (fifth  floor,  back,)  who  talks  in  pig 
ments,  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  spear  of  the 
northern  lights.  And  there  is  young  John  Keats, 
down  stairs,  pondering  over  a  vellum-bound  mis 
sal,  illumined  by  some  monk  of  the  middle  ages. 
(Keats  informs  me  that  he  seriously  thinks  of 
finishing  that  fragment  of  Hyperion.) 

They  are  not  idiots,  as  the  times  go  ;  they  are 
glorious  poets  and  philanthropists  whose  thoughts 
are  the  blood  of  the  world. 

Th.e  shadow  of  the  church-steeple  has  slanted 
across  the  street.  It  is  twilight.  The  air  is  full 
of  uncertain  shapes  and  sounds  ;  the  houses  over 
the  way,  look  as  if  they  were  done  in  sepia  ; 
people  are  walking  dreamily  through  the  hushed 
streets,  like  apparitions  ;  and  the  agile  apothecary, 
on  the  corner,  has  fired  up  the  amber  and  emerald 
jars  in  his  show-case. 


Out  of  his  Head. 

The  girl  in  the  tailor's  shop,  opposite,  leans  out 
of  the  window,  brown  in  the  dusk,  a  mere  crayon 
outline  of  a  girl  ;  she  fastens  back  the  blind,  show 
ing  me  how  prettily  she  is  made.  Now  the  lamps 
are  lighted.  The  grocery-man's  boy  lounges, 
looking  up  at  her  window.  I  wonder  if  he  is 
watching  the  plump  little  figure  that  comes  and 
goes  on  the  curtain  ? 

It  is  twilight.  Everything  is  comforted  and 
subdued  :  a  gentle  spirit  lays  its  finger  on  the  lips 
of  care  ....  even  on  my  lips  .  .  . 

Here  comes  that  genial  man,  with  the  wire- 
covered  candle,  and  my  supper. 

"  How  do  you  find  yourself,  sir  ? "  says  the 
man,  smiling  benignantly  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Extremely  well,  thank  you,  what's-your- 
name,"  I  reply.  "  By  the  way,  I  wish  you'd 
tell  Magliabechi  that  I'd  like  to  have  a  word 
with  him." 

"  Now,  could  n't  you  be  so  kind  as  to  wait  till 
morning  ?  "  says  the  man,  pleasantly. 


122  Out  of  his  Head, 

I  look  upon  this  as  very  considerate  in  him,  and 
conclude  to  wait. 

I  wonder  who  he  is  ? 

He  certainly  takes  great  interest  in  me.  I  will 
do  something  for  him,  when  the  MOON-APPARATUS 
is  completed.  He  deserves  it.  Dr.  Pendegrast 
must  know  him.  If  I  should  ever  get  out  of  my 
head,  and  I  shall,  some  day,  I  know,  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  such  a  well-bred,  affable  fellow 
for  my  — 

Alas  !  how  can  I  speak  thus  confidently  of  the 
future,  when  —  if  my  calculations  are  correct,  and 
everything  assures  they  are  —  the  long-expected 
crisis  is  at  hand  ?  How  can  I  pen  these  worse 
than  idle  words,  when  I  have  barely  time  to  con 
clude  the  task  which  I  dare  not  leave  undone  or 
slighted? 

What  people  are  these  hovering  silently  in  the 
shadow  of  my  bookcases  ?  Who  is  the  slight  girl 
that  looks  upon  me  with  such  serious  eyes  ?  and 
who  is  she  that  seems  so  woe-begone  in  her 


Out  of  his  Head,  123 

tinselled  dress  ?  There  are  two  men  in  the  group 
—  a  pale,  sad  man,  like  one  I  knew  long  ago  :  a 
tall,  brawny  man,  stained  with  travel,  his  face 
scorched  by  the  sun,  and  his  feet  red  with  desert 
sand.  The  end  must  be  near  since  these  have 
come  to  me. 

Hasten   back,    wayworn   pilgrims,   to   the  dim 
confines  of  the  world  we  are  to  share  together. 

"  Stay  for  me  there  !    I  shall  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale." 


124  Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BURNING  A  WITCH. 

HE  incongruous  events  of  my 
life  will  no  longer  appear  inexpli 
cable,  when  read  by  the  light  of 
the  revelation  which  I  am  on  the 
point  of  copying  from  this  creased 
and  yellowed  manuscript  —  this 
manuscript  which  I  have  worn  in 
my  bosom,  and  read  a  thousand 
times,  since  the  fatal  morning  when  a  boyish 
curiosity  —  ah,  it  was  something  more  than  that ! 
—  tempted  me  to  seek  for  hidden  treasures  among 
my  father's  papers,  in  the  chest,  where  they  had 
lain  mouldering  years  after  his  death. 


Out  of  his  Head,  125 

That  day  I  became  possessed  of  the  secret 
which  has  tinctured,  all  my  life.  That  day  I  read 
my  doom,  written  out  by  his  own  hand  —  the 
hand  that  was  no  more  lifted  up  in  battle  against 
the  world. 

The  words  are  half  obliterated,  the  tattered 
pages  are  falling  to  pieces.  Quick !  let  me  copy 
them. 

Matthew  Lynde's  Legend  of  the  Jocelyn  House, 

"  On  the  seventeenth  of  August,  in  the  year 
16 — ,  the  morning  sun,  resting  obliquely  on  the 
gables  and  roof-tops  of  Portsmouth,  lighted  up 
one  of  those  grim  spectacles  not  unusual  in  New 
England  at  that  period. 

"  A  woman  was  to  be  burnt  for  witchcraft. 

44  Goodwife  Walforde,  who  lived  with  her  son 
Reuben  in  a  lonely,  tumble-down  shanty,  on  the 
edge  of  the  village,  had  "been  seen  at  various 
times,  and  in  divers  places,  to  wring  her  hands, 
and  cry  out  aloud,  without  any  perceptible  cause. 

44  This  was  not  to  be  permitted. 


Out  of  Ills  Head. 


"  Witchcraft  was  then  spreading  like  a  pesti 
lence  over  the  country.  Several  persons,  possessed 
of  unnatural  and  un-Godly  powers,  had  already 
undergone  martyrdom  at  Salem  ;  and  as  the  wo 
man  Walforde  had  the  doubtful  reputation  of 
telling  fortunes,  making  love-charms,  and  the  like, 
the  cry  of  witchery  flew  like  wild-fire  from  door 
to  door  ;  and  a  thousand  vagaries,  sometimes 
coined  out  of  nothing,  perhaps,  passed  current 
as  truth. 

"  One  woman,  by  the  name  of  Langdon,  de 
clared  that  she  had  repeatedly  seen  Goodwife 
Walforde  careering  through  the  mist,  on  a  broom 
stick,  over  Piscataqua  river  ;  another  had  caught 
her  mumbling  to  six  brindled  cats  in  a  wood  ; 
while  more  than  a  dozen  had  frequently  noticed 
curious  puffs  of  smoke  issuing  from  her  nostrils. 

"  So,  of  course,  she  was  a  Witch. 

"  The  executive  authorities  took  heat  at  these 
facts,  and  the  freckled  crone  was  brought  up 
before  the  Court  of  Assistants,  and  condemned  to 
be  publicly  burnt,  "  accordinge  toe  ye  ryghteous 


Onl  of  his  Head.  127 

decision  of  ye  Elders  of  ye  Churclie  —  all  God- 
fearinge  menne." 

"  Just  as  the  sunlight  struck  across  the  spire 
of  the  village  meeting-house,  a  bell  commenced 
tolling  with  mournful  dissonance ;  and  groups 
of  men  and  women,  from  different  streets,  moved 
thoughtfully  toward  the  Court  House. 

"  The  crowd  here  assembled  was  composed  of 
formal-looking  men  with  long  pointed  beards  and 
sugar-loaf  hats;  children,  serious  for  the  moment  ; 
old  men  who  seemed  like  children  ;  and  not  a  few 
of  the  gentle  sex,  arrayed  in  the  voluminous  gray 
hoods  which,  at  that  time,  were  worn  by  the 
lower  classes. 

"  Here  and  there$  under  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  standing  aloof  from  the  common  herd,  were 
knots  of  the  more  wealthy  and  influential  citizens. 
No  one  spoke,  save  in  suppressed  whispers,  and  a 
hum  as  of  innumerable  bees  rose  up  from  the 
multitude. 

"  This  murmuring  suddenly  ceased,  as  Reuben 


118  Out  of  his  Head. 

Walforde  came  rushing,  like  a  man  demented, 
into'  the  Court-yard. 

"  '  Desist  in  your  unholy  purpose !  '  he  cried, 
flinging  his  arms  aloft.  '  Are  ye  heathen,  that 
ye  would  burn  a  harmless  woman,  in  mid-day, 
here,  in  New  England  ?  ' 

"'That's  the  witch's  whelp,'  remarked  a  lean, 
straight-haired  Puritan  to  a  neighbor  beside  him. 

"  '  What  d'  ye  say  ?  '  cried  Reuben  Walforde, 
fiercely,  turning  on  the  speaker,  '  Shall  I  strangle 
ye!' 

"  He  clutched  the  man's  collar,  and  shook  him 
so  stoutly  that  the  Puritan's  crucible-shaped  hat 
flew  several  feet  into  the  air ;  and  then  the  by 
standers  laughed.  -* 

"  At  this  moment,  two  persons  on  horseback 
joined  the  throng. 

"  The  elder  of  the  two  was  dressed  in  a  hand 
some  suit  of  black  cut  -  velvet,  and  wore  high 
knee-boots  of  Spanish  leather,  the  tops  elabo 
rately  laced  with  silk  cord.  The  housing  of  his 
horse  proclaimed  him  a  man  of  rank.  Behind 


Out  of  his  Head,  129 

* 

him  rode  a  young  gentleman  of  somewhat  foppish 
bearing,  in  a  coat  of  fine  maroon-colored  cloth 
and  white  satin  vest  sprinkled  with  embroidered 
tulips.  Waves  of  Mechlin  lace  broke  into  foam 
at  his  wrists.  His  hat  was  looped  up  on  one  side 
with  an  expensive  brooch,  from  which  dangled  a 
fleecy  black  plume. 

"  4  The  worshipful  John  Jocelyn,'  passed  quickly 
from  mouth  to  mouth. 

"  Reuben  Walforde  released  the  terrified  Pu 
ritan,  and  stood  scowling  at  him.  The  worshipful 
John  Jocelyn,  who  rode  a  few  paces  in  advance 
of  his  son  Arthur,  pressed  through  the  rabble, 
never  drawing  rein  until  he  confronted  the  dis 
putants. 

"  ;  It  ill-behoves  thee,  Reuben  Walforde,'  he 
said  sternly,  4  to  be  quarrelling  like  a  drunken 
Indian  on  such  a  day  as  this.  Thou  hadst  better 
thank  Heaven,'  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  '  that 
the  Evil  One  hath  not  laid  his  claw  on  thee,  as 
he  hath  on  thy  stricken  mother.' 

" '  Go     thy    way,    worshipful     John    Jocelyn,' 
6* 


130  Out  of  his  Head. 

returned  the  young  man,  scornfully.  '  Is  it  be 
coming  in  tliee,  or  any  meaner  man,  to  taunt 
misfortune  ?  Go  thy  way,  before  I  am  tempted 
to  lay  hold  on  thy  person,  and  make  thee  to  bite 
the  dust !  ' 

"  At  this  violent  and  rebellious  speech,  spoken 
in  a  loud,  angry  voice,  the  crowd  swayed  to 

and  fro. 

"  The  brow  of  the  magistrate  threatened  a 
storm ;  but  the  darkness  flitted  by,  and  he  said 
softly, 

"  '  I  know  not,  Reuben  Walforde,  if  I  have  ever 
injured  thee.  I  see  how  thou  art  beside  thyself, 
this  day,  and  pity  thy  plight,  or  else  I  would 
have  thee  exhibited  in  the  Market-Place  for  four- 
and-twenty-hours.' 

"  And  the  kind-hearted  John  Jocelyn  would 
have  ridden  on,  but  Reuben  Walforde  laid  his 
powerful  hand  on  the  check-rein,  and  brought  the 
horse  to  its  haunches. 

"  A  moment,  worshipful  John  Jocelyn  !  Let 
me  lead  thy  horse  from  these  impudent  gossips. 


Out  of  his  Head,  131 

There,  now,  they  cannot  hear  us.  Thou  hast  two 
wives  in  the  church-yard  —  one  whom  I  never 
saw,  the  mother  of  thy  Arthur,  yonder ;  but  the 
other  was  as  comely  a  maiden  as  there  is  in  all 
New  England,  and  her  I  loved  as  a  man  loves 
who  loves  but  once.  Thou  didst  win  her  from 
me,  and  she  died.  Thou  art  death  to  me  and 
mine.  In  this  trial  of  my  mother,  thou  hast 
shown  thyself  wonderfully  officious,  giving  willing 
credence  to  all  the  unseemly  lies  of  the  village. 
Thy  malice,  or  whatever  it  is,  is  her  ruin ;  for  the 
people  look  up  to  thee  as  a  ruler." 

"  4  Verily,  young  man,'  responded  the  magis 
trate  gently,  '  thou  art  blasphemous  to  name  thy 
weird  mother  with  that  fair  saint  whom  on  earth 
we  called  Hepzibah.  Of  thy  love  for  her  who 
was  Hepzibah  Jocelyn,  I  know  naught.  As  to 
thy  mother,  I  acted  as  became  a  Christian  and  a 
Magistrate  in  the  sight  of  Heaven.  Let  go  the 
bridle,  Reuben  Walforde ;  for  my  presence  must 
sanction  the  ceremony  about  to  take  place.  Even 


132  Out  of  itis  Head. 

now  the  procession  issueth  from  the  prison-yard. 
Release  thy  hold,  I  warn  thee !  ' 

"  Reuben  Walforde  threw  a  hurried  glance  to 
ward  the  train,  which  uncoiled  itself  from  the  prison- 
door,  like  a  slender  ebony  adder,  and  took  a 
zig-zag  course  in  the  direction  of  the  Court-House. 
Then  he  gave  a  howl,  and  sprang  upon  the 
worshipful  John  Jocelyn. 

"  4  Ho  !  good  folk  !  Seize  the  fellow  I '  cried 
John  Jocelyn  lustily ;  then  he  grew  purple  in  the 
face,  for  the  fingers  at  his  throat  had  well  nigh 
pressed  out  his  breath. 

"  Arthur  Jocelyn  put  spurs  to  the  flanks  of  his 
mare,  and  dealt  Walforde  a  blow  on  the  wrist 
with  the  loaded  butt  of  his  riding-whip. 

"  The  magistrate  and  his  assailant  were  speedily 
separated  :  the  former,  after  arranging  his  frill  and 
sleeve-ruffles,  rode  forward  to  the  Court-House  ; 
and  the  latter  was  confined  in  the  Cage,  from 
which  he  was  liberated  at  sunset,  by  the  magis 
trate's  own  order,  for  he  harbored  no  enmity 
against  the  unfortunate  youth. 


Out  of  his  Head, 


"  That  Reuben  Walforde  had  dared  to  lift  his 
thoughts  so  high  as  Hepzibah's  love,  was  strange 
intelligence  to  John  Jocelyn.  His  prosecution  of 
Dame  Walforde  had  been  actuated  by  nothing  but 
a  sober  desire  to  burn  out  the  evil  power  which 
had  recently  displayed  itself  in  many  of  the 
neighboring  townships,  filling  the  community  with 
direst  consternation. 

"  That  malignant  spirits  walked  the  earth  then, 
as  now,  who  can  doubt  ? 

"  The  sun  went  down  on  Portsmouth,  and  the 
event  of  the  day  became  a  matter  to  be  canvassed 
by  toothless  gossips  in  the  chimney-corner.  Then 
it  was  gradually  forgotten. 

"  But  mysterious  sounds  hung  in  the  air  for 
months  afterward  —  lingered  near  lonely  places 
on  the  river,  and  in  the  dismal  December  woods. 
And  sometimes,  in  autumn,  in  this  nineteenth 
century,  it  is  said  that  a  voice  of  supplication  and 
complaint  is  heard  in  the  wind  and  rain  at  night  ! 

"In  those  days  the  old  Jocelyn  House  — 
which  has  been  so  patched  and  altered  that  not  an 


134  Out  of  his  Head. 

original  shingle  or  clapboard  remains  —  stood 
somewhat  back  from  the  principal  thoroughfare, 
in  the  shade  of  two  gigantic  elms. 

•'  To-day  a  brick  sidewalk  runs  by  the  modern- 
isli  door-stoop.  The  curtailed  eaves,  the  gambrel 
roof,  and  the  few  quaint  devices  left  on  the  quoins 
and  over  the  dormer-windows,  give  one  no  idea  of 
that  imposing  pile  of  architecture  as  it  appeared 
in  its  glory. 

"  The  room  with  the  bay-windows  facing  west 
ward,  was  John  Jocelyn's  study.  His  ponderous 
sword  hung  over  the  wide  fire-place  in  company 
with  a  steel  casque  and  hauberk,  dinted  and  rusty 
—  once  the  property  of  some  Spanish  caballero 
who  had  served,  perchance,  under  the  gallant 
Pedro  de  Alvarado  or,  maybe,  under  Cortes 
himself. 

"  On  a  venerable  book-stand  were  a  few  evan 
gelical  volumes,  brought  over  in  the  May  Flower. 

"  The  chairs,  and  all  the  scanty  furniture  of 
the  apartment,  had  an  air  of  solemnity  in  keeping 
with  a  full-length  portrait  of  Sir  Godfrey  Jocelyn, 


Out  of  Ms  Head,  135 

in  a  plum-colored  coat  trimmed  with  tarnished 
gold-braid,  which  frowned  abstractedly  between 
the  casements  from  a  filigraned  frame. 

"  In  summer,  the  modest  tea-roses  looked  in  at 
the  window.  In  winter,  a  fire  of  hemlock  logs 
simmered  and  sneezed  with  impish  merriment, 
throwing  a  hundred  fantastic  shapes  on  the  walls, 
till  the  polished  oak  wainscoting  seemed  like 
mirrors  wherein  eccentric  goblins  viewed  them 
selves. 

Here,  since  the  death  of  his  young  wife,  sat  the 
worshipful  magistrate  alone,  late  at  night,  reading, 
cogitating  on  his  official  duties,  or  writing  courtly 
letters  to  his  kinsmen  in  England. 

"  One  night  very  late  —  for  the  village  watch 
man  had  just  cried  "  twelve,  and  all's  well "  — 
as  Arthur  Jocelyn  neared  the  domicile,  having 
passed  the  evening  at  the  Green  Mermaid,  he 
saw,  or  thought  he  saw  the  form  of  a  man  gliding 
stealthily  away  from  under  the  window  of  his 
father's  study. 

"  Young    Jocelyn,    who    had     been    drinking 


136  Out  of  his  Head. 

deeply  of  something  besides  the  nut-brown  ale,  so 
famous  in  those  days,  stopped  short  in  the  middle 
of  a  careless  tavern-snatch  he  was  singing,  and 
cried  out, 

U4  Hullo!  Sir  Shadow!  What!  art  thou  a 
ghost  ?  Then  the  fiend  catch  thee,  and  all  grave 
yard  people  who  cannot  sleep  decently  o'  nights.' 

"  A  coarse  laugh  startled  the  echoes  in  the 
village  street.  Then  all  was  still  as  death. 

"  On  reaching  the  house,  Arthur  hastened  with 
uneven  steps  to  the  study.  There  he  beheld  a 
scene  that  drove  the  vapors  of  the  wine  from  his 
brain. 

"  John  Joc.elyn,  with  a  sword  wound  in  his 
left  breast,  lay  motionless  across  the  lounge. 

"  Papers  were  scattered  over  the  floor  ;  a  chair 
broken  ;  a  glass  timepiece  splintered  on  the  hearth  ; 
the  prints  of  fingers  on  the  window-sill ;  the 
blinds  gaping  wide  open. 

"  Arthur  took  in  all  at  a  glance, 

"  '  Murdered  ! ' 

"  The    ejaculation    had    barely    escaped    him, 


Out  of  his  Head,  137 

when  he  heard  a  dry  rustling  at  the  further  end 
of  the  library. 

"  His  sword  leaped  out  of  its  sheath  like  a  flash 
of  lightning. 

"  The  sound  proceeded  from  the  portrait  of  Sir 
Godfrey  Jocelyn.  The  crackled  canvas  had 
commenced  bulging  and  warping.  Presently  the 
form  of  Sir  Godfrey  impatiently  disengaged  itself 
from  the  gloomy  background  of  the  picture,  and 
stepped  majestically  out  of  the  frame. 

"Arthur's  sword,  of  its  own  volition,  performed 
a  military  salute :  Arthur  himself  was  simply 
turned  to  stone  with  astonishment  and  awe. 

"  4  Arthur  Jocelyn  ! '  said  Sir  Godfrey,  in  a 
tone  that  seemed  to  reverberate  in  the  family 
vault,  c  mine  eyes  have  gazed  upon  a  most  foul 
deed.  It  is  a  sorry  fate  that  I,  though  dead,  am 
forced  through  the  agency  of  an  impious  painter, 
to  still  behold  the  deviltries  of  this  world.  I  have 
broken  out  of  these  vile  oil-colors  with  indignation. 

o 

Such  a  sight  !  —  thy  poor  father,  boy  !  By 
St.  George,  if  my  hilt  had  not  tangled  in  my 


138  Out  of  his  Head. 

baldric,  the  same  as  it  did  at  the  battle  of  Guigne- 
gaste,  I  would  have  slain  the  clown  Walforde 
myself!' 

"« Walforde!  That  witch's  foal  hath  done 
this,  then  ?  ' 

6  Even  so,'  returned  Sir  Godfrey  laconically ; 
then  his  ashen  eyes  crinkled  with  sudden  heat  — 
'  but  the  knave  hath  carried  away  such  a  sword  - 
cut  on  his  lip  as  will  mar  his  family  to  the  last 
generation.  Now  listen :  This  mad  deed  which 
hath  ended  the  career  of  a  righteous  and  ex 
emplary  man,  hath  given  thee  a  long  lease  of  life. 
The  Elders,  Arthur,  will  hang  thee  for  thy 
father's  death  ;  but  be  of  good  cheer  —  the  end 
is  not  yet.' 

"  Arthur's  head  sunk  on  his  bosom. 

"  '  When  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  have  fled, 
thou  shalt  live  again  :  thou  shalt  wear  the  face 
and  form  of  to-night  —  and  woe  then  to  the 
descendants  of  the  Walforde  that  cross  thy  path  ! 
Thou  shalt  see  them  suffer.  Thou  shalt  sweep 
them  from  the  face  of  the  earth ;  thou  shalt 


Out  of  his  Head.  139 

utterly  blot  out  the  race  —  nay,  not  by  violence, 
not  even  with  thine  own  free  will,  perchance. 
Yet  shalt  thou  lead  them  directly  or  indirectly,  to 
the  death.  And  when  the  clock  is  on  the  stroke 
of  twelve,  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  years  from 
this  night,  I  will  appear  before  thee,  Arthur, 
though  thou  wert  among  the  savages  of  Hin- 
dostan,  and  lead  thee  back  to  the  grave,  where 
thou  shalt  slumber  quietly  for  all  time  !  ' 

"  Then  the  sepulchral  voice  of  Sir  Godfrey 
died  away. 

"Arthur  started  with  a  shock,  like  one  who 
wakens  from  a  nightmare  at  the  dead  of  night. 

"  The  old  portrait  hung,  in  its  accustomed  place 
on  the  wall,  as  flat  and  burred  and  crackled  as  in 
Arthur's  childhood. 

"  A  wild  vibrating  cry  came  from  the  Jocelyn 
House. 

"  The  grim  Puritans  turned  in  their  beds  ;  the 
beadle  yawned,  and  the  village  undertaker,  in  his 
sleep,  dug  an  imaginary  grave. 

"  '  Help  !  help  !  '  cried  the  voice. 


140  Out  of  his  Head. 

"  ;  Help  '  said  the  echoes,  spitefully,  retreating 
to  the  woods ;  and  there,  among  the  crags,  they 
repeated  the  cry. 

"  Sick  men  heard  it  and  shuddered  ;  and  wakeful 
mothers  held  their  babes  nearer  to  their  bosoms. 
The  town-sentinels  discharged  their  matchlocks  at 
shadows,  then  myriads  of  lanterns  twinkled  in  the 
dusky  streets,  the  church-bell  began  ringing,  and 
armed  men  hurried  to  and  fro. 

"  '  Are  the  Indians  upon  us  again  ?  '  asked  one. 

" '  No,  but  a  murder  has  been  done  in  our 
midst.' 

"  Now,  when  the  good  people  found  Arthur 
Jocelyn  standing  by  the  casement  with  a  naked 
sword  in  his  grasp,  and  saw  the  worshipful  magis 
trate  lying  amort  on  the  lounge,  threatening  brows 
were  bent  on  the  young  man,  and  Suspicion 
pointed  a  black  finger  at  him. 

"  So,  in  due  time,  the  Elders  hanged  Arthur 
Jocelyn.  And  that  he  may  slumber  softly  in  the 
mould,  and  rise  not  until  the  Angel  of  the  Resur 
rection  call  him,  let  all  good  souls  pray. 


Out  of  liis  Head.  141 

" Such    is    the    Legend    of  the    Jocelyn 

House  —  an  old  nurse-wife's  tale  which  I  have 
preserved  simply  because  my  father  used  to  amuse 
us  children  with  it,  on  winter  evenings,  when  the 
family  were  gathered  at  the  hearth-side.  He  was 
a  graphic  raconteur;  and  I  remember  how  I 
listened  and  trembled  as  Sir  Godfrey  Jocelyn 
stepped  out  of  the  picture.  I  cannot  explain  to 
myself  why  the  story,  now  that  I  write  it  down, 
affects  me  so  strongly.  Curiously  enough,  if  such  a 
silly  old  legend  could  be  true,  my  son  Paul  is  the 
descendant  who,  according  to  the  prophecy  of 
Sir  Godfrey  —  but,  pshaw  !  this  is  madness.  I 
would  like  for  Paul  to  read  this  narrative  some 
time.  I  dare  not  trust  him  with  it  now,  for  the 
boy  is  excitable  to  a  degree  that  often  alarms  me. 
I  pray  heaven  he  may  be  spared  the  affliction  that 
obscured  his  grandfather's  last  days,  and  which,  I 
sometimes  think,  threatens  to  darken  mine. 

MATTHEW  LYNDE. 

November,  1837." 


142 


Out  of  his  Head, 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Two  HUNDRED  YEARS  OLD. 


UCH  is  the  key  to  the  meaning 
of  this  sombre  chronicle. 

In  new  shapes  old  spirits  are 
breathed  into  the  world,  and  I 
am  that  pale  Arthur  Jocelyn 
whom  the  Elders  persecuted  cen 
turies  ago,  when  bigotry  and 
superstition  fell  like  a  blight  on 
the  Colony  —  I,  Paul  Lynde. 

Bitterly  has  the  prophecy  been  fulfilled.  With 
out  my  own  will,  and  unconsciously,  I  have  woven 
the  black  threads  of  my  life  with  the  fate  of 
those  who  came  of  a  generation  that  hated  me 
and  mine. 


Out  of  his  Head.  143 

Cecil  is  dead.  Mark  Rowland  sleeps  in  an  ill- 
starred  city.  Mary  Ware  is  dead  ;  and  Kenneth 
—  the  last  of  his  race.  Kenneth  ?  Kenneth  ? 
I  think  it  was  Reuben  Walforde  that  went  stalking 
about  the  ends  of  the  earth ! 

They  are  gone  —  the  white  spirits  and  the  gray. 
And  the  time  draws  near,  ah,  so  near  !  when  my 
grim  ancestor  shall  appear,  and  take  me  into  that 
darkness  which  awaits  us  all. 

Again  I  shall  behold  Sir  Godfrey,  clad  in  the 
garb  of  a  by-gone  age,  as  I  beheld  him  that 
memorable  night  in  John  Jocelyn's  library. 

I  shall  hear  his  echoing  voice,  feel  the  humid 
touch  of  his  hand  ! 

****** 

Listen  !  —  no,  the  wind  brushes  the  elm-tree 
against  the  house,  and  the  stair-case  creaks  with 
the  frost. 

Heaven,  how  the  moments  whirl  by  ! 

People  are  dancing  to  dulcet  music  in  fragrant 
rooms :  lovers  are  whispering  together  in  shadowy 
alcoves :  mothers  are  caressing  their  children : 


]44  Out  of  his  Head. 

there  are  millions  of  happy  souls  in  the  world, 
and  I  — 

Listen  !  —  I  wish  the  wind  would  'nt  groan  so 
in  the  flue.  I  wish  the  elm-tree  would  n't  stand 
out  there,  in  the  night,  frantically  tossing  up  its 
arms  like  an  old  witch  at  the  stake. 

Only  an  hour,  now.  Only  sixty  minutes !  I 
would  they  were"*  so  many  centuries :  for  life  is 
still  sweet,  still  youth  clings  to  it,  and  I  am  young, 
though  I  am  Two  Hundred  Years  Old  — 

Hark  !  —  the  clock  is  striking  ! 


Out  of  his  Head,  145 


NOTE    BY   THE   EDITOR. 

MR.  LYNDE,  like  the  author  of  TJie  Anatomy, 
seems  to  have  predicted  the  time  of  his  own  de 
mise  ;  hut  his  prediction,  unlike  that  of  the  melan 
choly  Burton,  proved  inaccurate. 

Two  years  after  the  preceding  chapter  was  pen 
ned,  I  find  Mr.  Lynde  besieging  the  Patent  Office 
at  Washington,  with  a  Nautical  Self-Speaking 
Trumpet,  which,  on  being  inflated  by  an  air-pump, 
would  deliver  all  the  orders  necessary  for  working 
a  ship,  allowing  the  skipper,  in  the  meanwhile,  to 
stow  himself  snugly  away  in  his  bunk  below. 
This,  as  Mr.  Lynde  modestly  remarked  in  his  let 
ter  to  the  Department,  would  be  very  convenient, 
especially  in  "  nasty  weather."  As  the  walls  of 
that  respectable  institution,  the  Patent  Office,  en 
close  the  skeletons  of  numerous  inventions  nearly 
as  rational,  I  fail  to  see  why  Mr.  Lynde's  Trumpet 


146  Out  of  his  Head. 

was  denied  a  niche  in  the  collection.     The  Depart 
ment  refused  to  listen  to  it. 

The  precise  date  of  this  unfortunate  gentleman's 
death  is  unknown  to  me,  his  relatives,  with  strange 
reticence,  having  declined  to  furnish  me  with  the 
slightest  information  concerning  his  last  hours. 
Dr.  Pendegrast,  also,  when  I  applied  to  him,  dealt 
in  such  ambiguous  and  unsatisfactory  assertions, 
that  I  left  the  Asylum  more  than  half  convinced 
that  Mr.  Lynde  had  not  died  at  all ;  but  was  still 
living  and  ready  to  smile,  perhaps,  over  his  own 
obituary.  That  he  was  alive  as  •  late  as  1861  is 
proved  by  one  of  the  papers  in  his  Sketch-Book, 
—  a  collection  of  MS  placed  at  my  disposal  since 
this  romance  went  to  press.  I  print  the  papers 
here.  As  an  illustration  of  a  different  phase  of 
Mr.  Lynde's  mind,  I  trust  they  will  not  prove  un 
interesting. 


PAUL  LYNDE'S  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Pere  Antoine's  Date  Palm, 


149 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE  PALM. 

A  Legend  of  New  Orleans. 

T  is   useless  to   disguise   the   fact: 
Miss  Badeau  is  a  rebel. 

Mr.  Beauregard's  cannon  had  not 
done  battering  the  walls  of  Sumter, 
l  \when  Miss  Badeau  was  packed  up, 
^labelled,  and  sent  North,  where  she 
has  remained  ever  since  in  a  sort  of 
aromatic,  rose-colored   state    of  re 
bellion. 

She  is  not  one  of  your  sanguinary  rebels,  you 
know  ;  she  has  the  good  sense  to  shrink  with  hor 
ror  from  the  bare  mention  of  those  heathen  who, 
at  Manassas  and  elsewhere,  wreaked  their  unman 
ly  spite  on  the  bodies  of  our  dead  heroes  :  still  she 


150  Sketch-Book, 

is  a  bitter  little  rebel,  with  blond  hair,  superb  eye 
lashes,  and  two  brothers  in  the  Confederate  service 
—  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  club  the  statements. 
When  I  look  across  the  narrow  strait  of  our  board 
ing-house  table,  and  observe  what  a  handsome 
wretch  she  is,  1  begin  to  think  that  if  Mr.  Seward 
doesn't  presently  take  her  in  charge,  /shall. 

The  preceding  paragraphs  have  little  or  nothing 
to  do  with  what  I  am  going  to  relate  :  they  merely 
illustrate  how  wildly  a  fellow  will  write,  when  the 
eyelashes  of  a  pretty  woman  get  tangled  with  his 
pen.  So  I  let  them  stand  —  as  a  warning. 

My  exordium  should  have  taken  this  shape  :  — 

u  I  hope  and  trust,"  remarked  Miss  Badeau,  in 
that  remarkably  scathing  tone  which  she  assumes 
in  alluding  to  the  United  States  Volunteers.  "  I 
hope  and  trust,  that,  when  your  five  hundred 
thousand,  more  or  less,  men  capture  my  New  Or 
leans,  they  will  have  the  good  taste  not  to  injure 
Pere  Antoine's  Date-Palm." 

"  Not  a  hair  of  its  head  shall  be  touched,"  I  re- 


Pere  Antoine's  Date  Palni,         151 

plied,  without  having  the  faintest  idea  of  what  I 
was  talking  about. 

"  Ah  !  I  hope  not,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  certain  tenderness  in  her  voice 
which  struck  me. 

"  Who  is  PSre  Antoine  ?  "     I  ventured  to  ask. 

"  And  what  is  this  tree  that  seems  to  interest 
you  so?" 

"  I  will  tell  you." 

Then  Miss  Badeau  told  me  the  following  legend, 
which  I  think  worth  writing  down.  If  it  should 
appear  tame  to  the  reader,  it  will  be  because  I 
haven't  a  black  ribbed-silk  dress,  and  a  strip  of 
point-lace  around  my  throat,  like  Miss  Badeau  ;  it 
will  be  because  I  haven't  her  eyes  and  lips  and  mu 
sic  to  tell  it  with,  confound  me  ! 

Near  the  levee,  and  not  far  from  the  old  French 
cathedral,  in  New  Orleans,  stands  a  fine  date-palm, 
some  thirty  feet  high,  growing  out  in  the  open  air 
as  sturdily  as  if  its  roots  were  sucking  sap  from 
their  native  earth. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell,  in  his  "second   visit  to  the 


Sketch-Book. 

United  States,",  mentions  this  exotic  :  —  "  The 
tree  is  seventy  or  eighty  years  old ;  for  P£re  An- 
toine,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  who  died  about 
twenty  years  ago,  told  Mr.  Bringier  that  he  plant 
ed  it  himself,  when  he  was  young.  In  his  will  he 
provided  that  they  who  succeeded  to  this  lot  of 
ground  should  forfeit  it,  if  they  cut  down  the  palm." 
Wishing  to  learn  something  of  Pdre  Antoine's 
history,  Sir  Charles  Lyell  made  inquiries  among  the 
ancient  Creole  inhabitants  of  the  faubouro*.  That 

o 

the  old  priest,  in  his  last  days,  became  very  much 
emaciated,  that  he  walked  about  the  streets  like  a 
mummy,  that  he  gradually  dried  up,  and  finally 
blew  away,  was  the  meagre  result  of  the  tourist's 
investigations. 

This  is  all  that  is  generally  known  of  P£re  An- 
toine.  Miss  Badeau's  story  clothes  these  bare 
facts. 

When  Pere  ^Antoine  was  a  very  young  man,  he 
had  a  friend  whom  he  loved  as  he  loved  his  eyes. 
Emile  Jardin  returned  his  passion,  and  the  two, 
on  account  of  their  friendship,  became  the  marvel 


Pere  Antoiiie's  Date  Palm,         153 

of  the  city  where  they  dwelt.  One  was  never 
seen  without  the  other ;  for  they  studied,  walked, 
ate,  and  slept  together. 

Antoine  and  Emile  were  preparing  to  enter  the 
Church ;  indeed,  they  had  taken  the  preliminary 
steps,  when  a  circumstance  occurred  which  changed 
the  color  of  their  lives. 

A  foreign  lady,  from  some  far-off  island  in  the 
Pacific,  had  a  few  months  before  moved  into  their 
neighborhood.  The  lady  died  suddenly,  leaving 
a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  entirely  friendless 
and  unprovided  for.  The  young  men  had  been 
kind  to  the  woman  during  her  illness,  and  at  her 
death,  melting  with  pity  at  the  forlorn  situation  of 
Anglice,  the  daughter,  swore  between  themselves 
to  love  and  watch  over  her  as  if  she  were  their 
sister. 

Now  Anglice  had  a  wild,  strange  beauty,  that 
made  other  women  seem  tame  beside  her ;  and  in 
the  course  of  time  the  young  men  found  them 
selves  regarding  their  ward  not  so  much  like  broth 
ers  as  at  first. 

7* 


154  Sketch-Book. 

They  struggled  with  their  destiny  manfully,  for 
the  holy  orders  which  they  were  about  to  assume 
precluded  the  idea  of  love  and  marriage. 

But  every  day  taught  them  to  be  more  fond  oi 
her.  Even  priests  are  human.  So  they  drifted 
on.  The  weak  like  to  temporize. 

One  night  Emile  Jardin  and  Anglice  were  not 
to  be  found. 

They  had  flown  —  but  whither,  nobody  knew, 
and  nobody,  save  Antoine,  cared. 

It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  Antoine  —  for  he  had 
half  made  up  his  mind  to  run  away  with  her  him 
self. 

A  strip  of  paper  slipped  from  a  volume  on  An- 
toine's  desk,  and  fluttered  to  his  feet. 

"  Do  not  be  angry"  said  the  bit  of  paper,  pite- 
ously ;  "forgive  us,  for  we  love" 

Three  years  went  by  wearily  enough. 

Antoine  had  entered  the  Church,  and  was  al 
ready  looked  upon  as  a  rising  man  ;  but  his  face 
was  pale  and  his  heart  leaden,  for  there  was  no 
sweetness  in  life  for  him. 


Pere  Antoine-s  Date  Palm, 

Four  years  had  elapsed,  when  a  letter,  covered 
with  outlandish  stamps,  was  brought  to  the  young 
priest  —  a  letter  from  Anglice.  She  was  dying  ; 
—  would  he  forgive  her  ?  Emile,  the  year  pre 
vious,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  fever  that  raged 
on  the  island ;  and  their  child,  little  Anglice,  was 
likely  to  follow  him.  In  pitiful  terms  she  begged 
Antoine  to  take  charge  of  the  child  until  she  was 
old  enough  to  enter  a  convent.  The  epistle  was 
finished  by  another  hand,  informing  Antoine  of 
Madame  Jardin's  death ;  it  also  told  him  that 
Anglice  had  been  placed  on  board  a  vessel  shortly 
to  leave  the  island  for  some  Western  port. 

The  letter  was  hardly  read  and  wept  over,  when 
little  Anglice  arrived. 

On  beholding  her,  Antoine  uttered  a  cry  of  joy 
and  surprise  —  she  was  so  like  the  woman  he  had 
worshipped. 

As  a  man's  tears  are  more  pathetic  than  a  wo 
man's,  so  is  his  love  more  intense  —  not  more  en 
during,  or  half  so  subtle,  but  intenser. 

The  passion  that  had  been  crowded  down  in  his 


156       *  Sketch-Book, 

heart  broke  out  and  lavished  its  richness  on  this 
child,  who  was  to  him,  not  only  the  Anglice  of 
years  ago,  but  his  friend  E  mile  Jardin  also. 
Anglice  possessed  the  wild,  strange  beauty  of 
her  mother  —  the  bending,  willowy  form,  the  rich 
tint  of  skin,  the  large  tropical  eyes,  that  had  al 
most  made  Antoine's  sacred  robes  a  mockery  to 
him. 

For  a  month  or  two  Anglice  was  wildly  unhap 
py  in  her  new  home.  She  talked  continually  of 
the  bright  country  where  she  was  born,  the  fruits 
and  flowers  and  blue  skies  —  the  tall  fan-like  trees, 
and  the  streams  that  went  murmuring  through 
them  to  the  sea.  Antoine  could  not  pacify  her. 

By  and  by  she  ceased  to  weep,  and  went  about 
the  cottage  with  a  dreary,  disconsolate  air  that  cut 
Antoine  to  the  heart.  A  long-tailed  paroquet, 
which  she  had  brought  with  her  in  the  ship, 
walked  solemnly  behind  her  from  room  to  room, 
mutely  pining,  it  seemed,  for  those  heavy  orient 
airs  that  used  to  ruffle  its  brilliant  plumage. 

Before  the  year  ended,  he  noticed  that  the  rud- 


Pere  Antoine's  Date  Pahn,         157 

dy  tinge  had  fled  from  her  cheek,  that  her  eyes 
had  grown  languid,  and  her  slight  figure  more 
willowy  than  ever. 

A  physician  was  consulted.  He  could  discover 
nothing  wrong  with  the  child,  except  this  fading 
and  drooping.  He  failed  to  account  for  that.  It 
was  some  vague  disease  of  the  mind,  he  said,  be 
yond  his  skill. 

So  Anglice  faded  day  after  day.  She  seldom 
left  the  room  now.  Antoine  could  not  shut  out 
the  fact  that  the  child  was  passing  away.  He  had 
learned  to  love  her  so  ! 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  said  once,  "  what  is't  that  ails 
thee?" 

"  Nothing,  mon  pe"re,"  for  so  she  called  him. 

The  winter  passed,  the  balmy  spring  air  had 
come,  and  Anglice  seemed  to  revive.  In  her  little 
bamboo  chair,  on  the  porch,  she  swayed  to  and 
fro  in  the  fragrant  breeze,  with  a  peculiar  undula 
ting  motion,  like  a  graceful  tree. 

At  times  something  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her 
mind.  Antoine  noticed  it,  and  waited. 


158  Sketch-Book. 

At  length  she  spoke. 

"  Near  our  house,"  said  little  Anglice  —  "  near 
our  house,  on  the  island,  the  palm-trees  are  waving 
under  the  blue  sky.  Oh,  how  beautiful !  I  seem 
to  lie  beneath  them  all  day  long.  I  am  very,  very 
happy.  I  yearned  for  them  so  much  that  I  grew 
sick  —  dont  you  think  it  was  so,  mon  p£re  ?  " 

"Mon  Dieu,  yes !  "  exclaimed  Antoine,  sudden 
ly.  "Let  us  hasten  to  those  pleasant  islands 
where  the  palms  are  waving." 

Anglice  smiled. 

"  I  am  going  there,  mon  p£re  !  " 

Ay,  indeed.  A  week  from  that  evening  the 
wax  candles  burned  at  her  feet  and  forehead,  light 
ing  her  on  her  journey. 

All  was  over.  Now  was  Antoine's  heart  emp 
ty.  Death,  like  another  Emile,  had  stolen  his  new 
Anglice.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  lay  the 
blighted  flower  away. 

Pere  Antoine  made  a  shallow  grave  in  his  gar 
den,  and  heaped  the  fresh  brown  mould  over  his 
idol. 


Pere  Antoine's  Date  Paliu,         159 

In  the  genial  spring  evenings  the  priest  was 
seen  sitting  by  the  mound,  his  finger  closed  in  the 
unread  prayer-book. 

The  summer  broke  on  that  sunny  land  ;  and  in 
the  cool  morning  twilight  and  after  nightfall  An- 
toine  lingered  by  the  grave.  He  could  never  be 
with  it  enough. 

One  morning  he  observed  a  delicate  stem,  with 
two  curiously  shaped  emerald  leaves,  springing  up 
from  the  centre  of  the  mound.  At  first  he  merely 
noticed  it  casually :  but  at  length  the  plant  grew 
so  tall,  and  was  so  strangely  unlike  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  before,  that  he  examined  it  with 
care. 

How  straight  and  graceful  and  exquisite  it  was ! 
When  it  swung  to  and  fro  with  the  summer  wind, 
in  the  twilight,  it  seemed  to  Antoine  as  if  little 
Anglice  were  standing  there  in  the  garden  ! 

The  days  stole  by,  and  Antoine  tended  the  fra 
gile  shoot,  wondering  what  sort  of  blossom  it  would 
unfold,  white,  or  scarlet,  or  golden.  One  Sunday, 
a  stranger,  with  a  bronzed,  weather-beaten  face 


160  Sketch-Book. 

like  a  sailor's,  leaned  over  the  garden  rail,  and 
said  to  him  : 

"  What  a  fine  young  date-palm  you  have  there, 
sir  !  " 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  cried  P£re  Antoine,  "  and  is  it 
a  palm?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  man.  "  I  had  no 
idea  the  tree  would  flourish  in  this  climate." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  was  all  the  priest  could  say. 

If  P£re  Antoine  loved  the  tree  before,  he  wor 
shipped  it  now.  He  watered  it,  and  nurtured  it, 
and  could  have  clasped  it  in  his  arms.  Here  were 
Emile  and  Anglice  and  the  child,  all  in  one ! 

The  years  flew  by,  and  the  date  palm  and  the 
priest  grew,  together  —  only  one  became  vigorous 
and  the  other  feeble.  P£re  Antoine  had  long 
passed  the  meridian  of  life.  The  tree  was  in  its 
youth.  It  no  longer  stood  in  an  isolated  garden  ; 
for  homely  brick  and  wooden  houses  had  clustered 
about  Antoine's  cottage.  They  looked  down 
scowling  on  the  humble  thatched  roof.  The  city 
was  edging  up,  trying  to  crowd  him  off  his  land. 
But  he  clung  to  it,  and  refused  to  sell. 


Pere  Aiitoine's  Date  Palm,          161 

Speculators  piled  gold  on  his  doorsteps,  and  he 
laughed  at  them.  Sometimes  he  was  hungry,  but 
he  laughed  none  the  less. 

"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan !  "  said  the  old 
priest's  smile. 

Pere  Antoine  was  very  old  now,  scarcely  able 
to  walk ;  but  he  could  sit  under  the  pliant,  caress 
ing  leaves  of  his  tree,  and  there  he  sat  till  the 
grimmest  of  speculators  came  to  him.  But  even 
in  death  P£re  Antoine  was  faithful  to  his  trust. 
The  owner  of  that  land  loses  it,  if  he  harm  the 
date-tree. 

And  there  it  stands  in  the  narrow,  dingy  street, 
a  beautiful,  dreamy  stranger,  an  exquisite  foreign 
lady  whose  grace  is  a  joy  to  the  eye,  the  incense 
of  whose  breath  makes  the  air  enamored.  A 
precious  boon  is  she  to  the  wretched  city;  and 
when  loyal  men  again  walk  those  streets,  may  the 
••hand  wither  that  touches  her  ungently. 

"  Because  it  grew  from  the  heart  of  little  An- 
glice,"  said  Miss  Badeau,  tenderly. 


Sketch-Book* 


A   WORD   FOR   THE   TOWN. 
A  City  Idyl. 

ORYDON  may  neglect  his  flock, 
if  he  will,  and  burst  an  oaten  pipe 
for  Phillicla,  if  he  wants  to  ;  Amyn- 
tas  may  lie  on  a  sunny  hill-side  in 
Arcady  if  such  is  his  pleasure,  and 
bake  himself  as  brown  as  a  bun  ; 
but  as  for  me,  I  will  have  none  of 
the  country. 

The  country  is  rainy  and  muddy  in  spring,  hot 
and  dusty  in  summer,  and  unendurable  in  winter. 
It  is  true,  there  is  a  bit  of  Indian  summer,  run  in 
parenthetically,  at  the  close  of  the  year.  And 
this  is  is  pleasant,  providing  you  have  bright  com- 


A  Word  for  the  Town.  163 

pany,  picturesque  scenery,  and  the  prospect  of  re 
turning  to  town  before  Nature  begins  her  annual 
world-cleaning  and  whitewashing. 

But  when  the  autumnal  pageant  has  passed ; 
when  the  ochre  and  crimson,  and  chocolate-colored 
leaves  are  rotting  under  foot;  when  the  trees 
about  the  house  shiver  and  moan  in  the  twilight, 
like  rheumatic  old  ladies ;  when  the  wind  whistles 
down  the  chimney,  and  up  your  coat-sleeves  ;  when 
you  can  no  longer  walk  with  Mademoiselle  Sylvia 
in  the  moonlight ;  when,  in  short,  the  Indian  sum 
mer  has  gone  off  in  a  whiff,  then  it  is  time  for  you 
to  be  out  of  the  country.  You  should  not  linger 
there  for  winter  to  tuck  you  up  under  its  white 
coverlid. 

But  the  Town  ! 

Ay,  that  is  the  place  not  for  a  day,  but  for  all 
time.  That  we  have  rain  and  mud  in  spring,  and 
wretched  snow  in  winter,  is  not  to  be  denied  ;  but 
then  we  have  sidewalks,  and  Amaryllis  is  particu 
larly  tempting  during  these  periods.  The  grace, 
care,  and  coquettishness  with  which  she  keeps  her 


164  Sketch-Book. 

snowy  drapery  immaculate,  are  wonderful.  A 
single  glimpse  of  Amaryllis,  as  she  crosses  over  to 
Stewart's,  more  than  pays  one  for  the  moist  incon 
veniences  of  bad  weather. 

Spring  in  the  city  !  You  get  such  delicate  hints 
of  spring !  The  dried  up  old  crone  of  a  gera 
nium,  on  your  window-sill,  has  put  forth  a  tiny 
green  leaf.  It  hesitates,  as  if  it  would  fold  itself 
up  again,  it  is  such  a  modest,  non-committal  little 
leaf.  Is  it  not  one  of  Nature's  diminutive  prodi 
gies  ?  You  discover  a  single  blade  of  grass  shoot 
ing  sharply  up  from  between  two  bricks  in  your 
backyard.  Would  a  dozen  acres  of  meadow-land 
delight  you  more  ? 

Amaryllis  has  hung  her  canaries  at  the  window. 
What  shrill  music  they  make !  They  wake  you 
early  in  the  morning,  and  you  see  Amaryllis  in  a 
distracting  robe  de  chambre.  It  has  sky-blue 
rosettes  up  and  down  in  front,  and  is  tightened 
at  the  waist  with  a  silk  girdle. 

"  What  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown  • 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done  ?  " 


A  Word  for  the  Town.  165 

You  see  the  five  cunning,  white  birds  of  Ama 
ryllis's  right-hand  feeding  the  noisy  yellow  idiots, 
in  the  villa-like  cages.  The  air  is  full  of  sweet 
messages  from  the  south.  You  select  a  neck-tie 
of  gorgeous  colors.  You  go  down  town  without 
your  overcoat.  You  smile  genially  on  Jones. 
You  don't  generally  smile  on  Jones,  for  he  lives 
next  door  to  Amaryllis.  You  are  good  natured ; 
you  cannot  tell  why.  You  kick  a  strip  of  lemon 
peel  off  the  curbstone,  You  are  philanthropic, 
also,  but  you  don't  know  why.  It  is  spring  ! 

After  several  weeks  of  torturing  suspense,  you 
conclude  that  Amaryllis  must  have  gone  to  Na- 
hant  or  Newport.  She  has.  The  fair  Capulet 
does  not  take  her  "  cue  "  now,  and  the  window- 
scene  is  a  failure.  Biddy  feeds  the  canaries.  You 
are  not  entirely  miserable,  though. 

It  is  midsummer. 

There  is  a  shady  side  to  the  street ;  there  are 
parks  and  fountains  pro  bono  publico;  there  are 
Roman  punches  and  strawberry  ices  at  Maillard's, 
and  a  promenade  concert  at  the  Academy.  You 


166  Sketch-Book, 

like  music,  and  you  spend  your  evenings,  when 
you  are  not  somewhere  else,  at  the  Academy. 
You  hear  Agnes  Robertson  sing.  She  captivates 
you  with  her  woman's  eyes  and  her  boy's  costume. 
You  immediately  hate  her  husband.  You  do 
more  —  you  forget  Amaryllis.  There  is  a  mari 
time  view  from  the  battery,  and  a  salt-sea  breeze  at 
Coney  island,  and  certain  leafy  nooks  over  the 
river,  where  you  can  sip  maraschino,  or  discuss 
omlette  roufle*e  within  hearing  of  the  rich  bass 
voice  of  the  city  hall  bell.  You  can  hire  a  boat 
at  Whitehall  and  float  down  the  Narrows,  or  you 
can  sweep  by  the  Palisades  in  the  Thomas  Powell, 
and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  wrong  side  of  Fred. 
Cozzen's  house,  at  Yonkers  ;  and,  little  farther  up, 
the  cocked-hat  gables  of  Washington  Irving's 
"  Sunnyside."  You  can  drink  lager-beer,  and  de 
vour  schweizer  kese  and  pretzeln  at  Hoboken. 
You  can  also  purchase  a  knot  of  flowers  at  the 
Sybil's  cave. 

What   an   epitome   of  sweet   things  is   a   bou 
quet  !      You    have   the  grace  and  the    goodness, 


Sketch-Book.  167 

the  perfumes  and  the  tints  of  summer-time,  for 
a  shilling.  You  have  the  delights  of  meadow  and 
woodland  bound  together  by  an  ell  of  claret- 
colored  ribbon.  You  have  a  fragment  of  the  sky, 
and  a  tangle  of  grass  with  merry  red  buds,  such 
as  Coleman  and  Shattuck  like  to  paint ;  you  have 
dews,  and  stars,  and  sunset  things  !  You  have  a 
portable  flower-garden.  You  can  put  it  into  your 
waistcoat  pocket.  You.  can  give  it  to  Chloe,  who 
hasn't  gone  to  Nahant.  Or,  better  still,  keep  it, 
though  it  fade,  for  Amaryllis. 

The  summer  solstice  is  over,  and  the  temptation 
has  returned  to  town.  She  does  not,  indeed,  hang 
her  canaries  at  the  open  window,  and  your  eyes 
are  seldom  ravished  by  a  sight  of  that  morning 
robe  with  the  blue  rosettes  in  front ;  but,  now  and 
then,  when  you  come  home  rather  late  at  night 
you  see  the  shadow  of  Amaryllis  on  the  buff  win 
dow-curtain,  and  you  are  not  wholly  unliappy. 
Your  existence  becomes  worth  cultivating.  You 
lounge  in  your  lazy  easy-chair,  you  fill  your  meer 
schaum  with  fragrant  Oranoko  or  May-Blossom, 


168  Sketch-Book, 

and  picture  to  yourself  the  paradise  that  lies  just 
the  other  side  of  that  provoking  curtain.  Ama 
ryllis  has  been  to  the  Opera,  and  is  robbing  her 
heavy  black  tresses  of  their  burning  ornaments. 
You  can  see  the  shadow  on  the  curtain  lifting  its 
arms.  It  appears  and  disappears,  and  tantalizes 
you.  It  is  unlacing  something,  you  dont  know 
what  —  but  you  mustn't  look  any  more.  You  re 
member  Keat's  description  of  Madeline,  as  she  dis 
robes  on  St.  Agnes'  eve  ?  Ten  to  one  you  repeat 
the  lines  half  aloud : 

"  Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels,  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams." 

You  will  paint  some  such  picture.  Of  course 
you  should  not.  But  the  probability  is  you  will. 

The  time  has  come  when  you  have  to  examine 
the  thermometer  to  ascertain  how  cold  you  are. 
You  are  very  cold  when  you  find  the  quicksilver 
some  ten  degrees  below  zero;  in  fact,  just  twice 
as  cold  as  you  were  before  you  obtained  that  know- 


A  Word  for  the  Tom  169 

ledge.  Your  pitcher  of  water  says  click  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  you  are  tempted  to  throw 
your  boot  at  it.  It  is  something  mysterious  and 
awful  to  have  your  pitcher  of  water  express  its 
opinion  of  the  weather.  When  you  get  up  in  the 
morning,  you  discover  some  very  bizarre  pictures 
on  your  window-panes.  They  are  chiefly  repre 
sentations  of  polar  scenery  —  weird,  terrible,  Ice 
landic  pictures.  You  look  at  them  as  you  dress 
yourself,  and  think  of  Dr.  Kane. 

It  is  Christinas  time.  Merry  Christmas  ?  Ah, 
but  it  used  to  be  some  twenty  years  syne.  It  was 
fine,  then,  to  loiter  through  the  crowded  streets, 
gazing  into  the  shop  windows  —  El  Dorados  of 
fancy  articles,  Australian  lands  of  bon-bons  and 
rock-candy.  What  visions  you  had  of  St.  Nick., 
with  his  reindeer  equipage  on  the  house-top.  You 
could  hear  the  pawing  of  the  silver  hoofs. 

Something  of  the  old  pleasure  in  Christmas, 
something  of  the  old  faith  in  Santa  Claus,  warms 
in  your  heart  as  you  stroll  down  Broadway  with 
the  chilly  stars  sparkling  over  head  and  the  white 
spangles  under  your  feet. 


170  Sketch-Book, 

The  street  is  illuminated  with  lights  of  a  hun 
dred  colors.  It  is  one  long  bazaar  where  you  may 
feast  your  eyes  with  the  riches  of  all  nations. 

Turkish  looms  have  been  busy  for  you. 

Quarries  have  been  opened  and  streams  search 
ed  that  you  might  look  on  clusters  of  precious 
jewels. 

The  patient  Chinaman  has  carved  his  dreamy 
fantasies  in  ivory,  and  the  oily  Esquimau  has  fash 
ioned  seal-skin  snow-shoes  for  you. 

Here  you  have  curious  instruments,  of  brass 
and  wood,  and  pearl,  within  whose  tubes  and  un 
der  whose  keys  lurk  passionate  music  —  the  spirits 
of  joy  and  woe. 

There  you  have  fantastic  pipes  from  Tuscany, 
wines  from  Germany,  sweetmeats  from  the  Indies, 
and  confections  from  Paris ;  Malaga  grapes  and 
creamy  bananas,  and  oranges  that  turned  to  gold 
;n  the  warm  air  of  Cuba. 

Your  slaves  in  the  East  have  sent  you  attars, 
and  gums,  and  scented  woods.  What  is  there  in 
all  the  climes,  from 

"  Lucent  syrops  tinct  with  cinnamon," 


A  Word  for  the  Town.  171 

to  a  marble  mosque  or  a  Chinese  pagoda,  that  does 
not  lie  within  your  reach  ? 

You  are  Haroun  al  Rascliid  in  Bagdad,  you  are 
Haitalnefous,  you  are  anybody  you  please,  with 
the  world's  wealth  heaped  about  you. 

Have  the  kindness  to  help  yourself ! 

You  wander  through  the  street  in  a  midwinter 
night's  dream.  What  do  you  care  for  the  bleak 
wind,  or  the  snow-flakes,  or  the  people  who  jostle 
you  ?  You  stare  at  the  brilliant  shops ;  you  do 
not  kno\Y  which  to  enter,  for  each  one  is  more 
beautiful  than  the  other,  like  the  Khaleef 's  forty 
wives.  You  pause  at  Tiffany's.  Tiffany's  win 
dows  are  on  fire  with  diamonds. 

All  the  water  in  the  underground  pipes,  which, 
like  huge  arteries,  traverse  the  city,  could  not 
quench  the  fire  that  burns  in  those  stones. 

You  flatten  your  nose  on  the  plate-glass ;  you 
see  a  necklace  which  you  would  like  to  clasp  on 
Amaryllis's  perfect  throat ;  you  would  also  like 
to  manacle  her  white  wrists  with  those  turquoise 
bracelets  ;  you  would  like 


172  Sketch-Book. 

Listen  !  High  up  in  the  belfry,  in  the  rain,  and 
the  sleet,  and  the  dark  night,  there  is  a  nest  of 
merry  birds.  They  have  quiet,  airy  hymns  which 
they  chirp  on  summer  evenings.  But  how  clam 
orous  and  jubilant  they  are  this  winter  night  ! 
Why  are  their  happiest,  wildest  songs  kept  for  the 
snow  and  the  sleet?  Why  are  they  so  joyous 
when 

"  The  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing?  " 

Why,  indeed,  let  us  think  of  that. 

If  I  should  ever  move  into  the  country  it  will 
be  on  one  condition  —  that  I  take  the  Town  with 
me. 


Miss  flepzibah's  Lover, 


173 


MISS  HEPZIBAH'S  LOVER. 

A  Seaside  Sketch. 

O  one  looking  at  Miss  Hepzi- 
bali,  in  this  year  of  our  Lord, 
18 — ,  would  suppose  that  Miss 
Hepzibah  ever  had  a  lover.  Un 
til  last  summer,  it  would  have 
ibeen  true  to  say  that  she  never 
had. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  vague  sto 
ry  concerning  a  certain  old  young  gentleman  who, 
some  ten  years  subsequent  to  the  war  of  1812. 
was  imagined  to  have  entertained  a  tender  and  pn- 
thetic  feeling  for  Miss  Hepzibah  ;  but  as  he  never 
told  his  love,  and  as  concealment  never  appeared 
to  have  become  apoplectic  by  feeding  on  his  damask 


174  Sketch-Book, 

cheek,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  doubt  the  tradi 
tion. 

Miss  Hepzibah,  was  born  an  old  maid. 

She  was  born  with  the  intention  of  never  sacri 
ficing  her  independence  on  the  altar  of  matrimony, 
unless  she  should  happen  to  meet  with  what  she 
called  her  Beau  Ideal.  Until  this  miraculous  and 
winning  creature  should  make  his  advent,  Miss 
Hepzibah  refrained  from  fanning  any  minor  spark 
into  a  flame. 

Miss  Hepzibah  vestalized. 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  her  Beau  Ideal, 
(owing  to  various  causes,  among  which  may  be 
placed  the  laws  of  gravitation)  never  turned  up  : 
for  Miss  Hepzibah's  Ideal  involved  the  possession 
of  such  an  impossible  catalogue  of  angelicisms  and 
such  a  plentiful  lack  of  human  weaknesses,  as  to  en 
tirely  shut  out  the  whole  race  of  Man. 

Miss  Hepzibah's  youth  glided  decorously  away  ; 
her  prime  came  and  went  with  the  utmost  proprie 
ty  ;  epoch  faded  into  epoch  ;  until,  at  last,  there 
was  a  sarcastic  yellow  on  the  page  of  the  family 


Miss  Hepzibah's  Lover,  175 

Bible,  wherein  was  recorded,  in  large  round  char 
acters,  the  date  of  her  birth. 

She  put  on  her  spectacles  one  day,  and  found 
that  the  golden  girls  of  her  childhood  had  passed 
on.  Little  faces,  with  strangely  familiar  eyes  and 
lips,  grew  up  about  her,  and  cold  white  head-stones 
whereon  were  engraved  names  familiar  to  her 
youth. 

She  had  become  the  last  leaf  on  her  ancestral 
tree ;  she  had  also  become  the  last  leaf  anybody 
would  think  of  gathering.  Not  that  Miss  Hepzi- 
bah  had  lost  any  of  her  beauty,  for  it  mav  be 
truthfully  said  that  she  never  lost  an  atom. 

But  she  had  lost  the  charm  of  her  teens,  the 
magnetism  of  her  twenties,  the  splendor  of  her 
thirties,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  of  her  forties 
also.  But  while  time  had  left  inviolate  the  pecu 
liar  points  of  her  person,  which  was  all  points,  it 
had  seen  proper  to  work  a  remarkable  change  in 
her  mind,  and  had  led  her  to  indulge  in  several  il 
lusions,  to  the  supreme  astonishment  and  conster 
nation  of  her  friends. 


176  Sketch-Book. 

She  had  ceased  to  regard  the  animal,  Man,  with 
bitterness  ! 

Indeed,  she  had  grown  to  regard  him,  as  a  race, 
with  such  tenderness,  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  in 
tended,  with  the  warmth  of  later  days,  to  make 
the  amende  honorable  for  the  coldness  of  her  teens. 

To  such  an  extent  she  carried  her  reparation, 
that  Mr.  Higgins,  her  second  cousin,  with  whom 
she  resided,  felt  it  his  duty,  as  a  human  being,  to 
remove  his  Milesian  gardener  from  the  Vivian-like 
witchery  of  her  presence.  But  Miss  Hepzibah  di 
rected  her  attention  to  the  colored  coachman  (a 
gentleman  of  a  migrative  turn  of  mind,  who  abrupt 
ly  graduated  from  Virginia  one  day,)  and  it  was 
through  her  affability  that  he  was  ultimately  in 
duced  to  fall  in  love  and  elope  with  —  the  family 
plate. 

Miss  Hepzibah  now  labored  under  the  impress 
ion  that  a  very  ornate  and  juvenile  style  of  cos 
tume  became  her  figure  and  complexion. 

She  dawned  upon  the  world  in  light  shotted 
silks  and  blossomy  bare*ges. 


Miss  Hepzibah's  Lover,  177 

She  also  assumed,  with  the  gorgeousness  of  ap 
parel,  the  artless  gaiety  of  a  sea-side  belle  in  her 
bloom.  Her  naivete  and  freshness  were  perfectly 
startling. 

44  Cousin  says  I'm  so  giddy,"  she  remarked  to 
Clarence  Adolphus,  as  they  walked  on  the  piazza 
of  the  hotel  at  Nahant. 

Clarence  Adolphus  was  heard  to  reply  : 

"  Ye  —  yes,  I  think  you  are,  werry." 

The  affair  with  the  colored  coachman  was  the 
feather  that  broke  Miss  Hepzibah's  second  cousin's 
back.  They  had  some  low  words  in  a  high  tone, 
and  parted.  Miss  Hepzibah  retired  from  the  in 
hospitable  roof,  and  tacked  a  codicil  to  her  will, 
leaving  the  bulk  of  her  personal  property  to  the 
"  Seaman's  Disabled  Home  Association." 

Miss  Hepzibah  resided  in  the  enchanted  city  of 
Manhattan  during  the  Winter  months;  but  the 
Summer  solstice  was  passed  on  the  New  Hamp 
shire  coast,  in  a  cottage  Gothique  of  her  own,  con 
tiguous  to  a  fashionable  hotel. 

It  was  during  the  height  of  the  watering-place 


178  Sketch-Book. 

fever,  one  year  ago,  that  what  happened  did  hap 
pen. 

Miss  Hepzibah  had  a  lover  ! 

After  waiting  for  nearly  half  a  century,  the 
Coming  Man  came  —  not  her  Beau  Ideal,  to  be 
sure ;  she  had  long  ceased  to  dream  of  him  ;  but  a 
real  flesh  and  blood  lover,  with  faults  and  virtues, 
to  whom  Miss  Hepzibah  sometimes  grimly  alludes 
as  "  that  person." 

The  Atlantic  House  was  crowded  with  all  sorts 
of  people  —  fops  and  belles,  tinsel  and  gold :  the 
broken  merchant  with  his  three  thin  daughters 
looking  out,  in  smiling  despair,  for  an  itinerant 
Rothschild :  the  everlasting  family  from  the  South 
with  a  great  deal  of  jewelry  :  the  rich,  obese  old 
gentleman,  who  always  reminds  you  of  Pickwick, 
talks  to  everybody,  loves  fishing,  is  a  favorite  witli 
the  young  ladies,  and  calls  the  young  gentlemen 
"  sad  dogs,"  slapping  them  heartily  on  the  back,  just 
like  the  merry  heavy  father  in  a  genteel  comedy : 
there  was  the  small  city  clerk,  putting  on  airs : 


Miss  Hepzibah's  Lover,  179 

the  peripatetic  artist,  a  veritable  Bohemian,  in  a 
sensible  slouched  hat,  making  studies  for  studio- 
manipulation  :  the  pale  gentleman  who  corresponds 
with  a  metropolitan  newpaper,  and  is  said  to  have 
once  had  a  joke  in  London  Punch:  the  retired 
catholicon-maker,  and  several  nondescript  persons, 
with  a  happy  sprinkling  of  pretty  girls  in  racy 
basquines  and  distracting  Godenskis. 

Among  this  motley  crowd  were  two  persons  who 
t  figure  in  this  chronicle. 

Mr.  Philip  Winter  was  a  young  lawyer,  aged  24, 
with  no  end  of  money,  and  not  the  slightest  ghost 
of  a  client.  Mr.  Winter  was  a  gentleman  of  a 
good  deal  of  "  personal  appearance,"  and  seemed 
to  be  on  very  off-hand  amiable  terms  with  him 
self,  and  a  Miss  Kate  Brandon,  of  Brandon  Fork, 
a  blithe  Kentucky  girl  (what  pretty  women  they 
do  get  up  in  Kentucky,)  who  cultivated  a  blush- 
rose  in  either  cheek,  guarding  the  same  with  a 
pair  of  rather  splendid  eyes,  which,  when  they 
looked  at  you,  seemed  to  run  up  and  down  the 


180  Sketch-Book. 

gamut  of  your  character,  ascertaining  just  how 
many  octaves  you  were. 

I  should  not  omit  to  mention  Brandon  senior  — • 
Brandon  padre  —  a  courteous  old  gentleman  and 
very  slim,  who  read  the  papers  all  day  on  the  porch, 
and  looked  as  if  he  had  tried  to  extinguish  himself 
with  his  hat,  nothing  but  two  ears  preventing  it 
from  resting  on  his  shoulders. 

It  has  been  intimated  that  Mr.  Winter  and  the 
Kentucky  beauty  were  on  amiable  terms.  A 
chance  overhearing  of  the  following  fragment  of 
dialogue  led  me  to  that  conclusion  : 

O 

Scene  :  The  sea-shore :  the  sun,  shorn  of  all 
its  rays,  attempting  to  balance  itself,  like  an  acro 
bat,  on  the  thin  line  of  the  horizon  ;  the  Atlantic, 
\vith  a  languid  lip,  lapping  long  miles  of  snowy 
beach  ;  Mr.  Philip  Winter  and  Miss  Kate  Brandon 
lounging  by  the  bath-houses,  in  one  of  which  is 
the  subscriber,  getting  himself  up  regardless  of  ex 
pense. 

Ph<i  p.  —  but  I  love  you,  Kate. 


Miss  Hepzibalrs  Lover,  181 

Kate  (looking  out  to  sea)  —  Isn't  that  a  fishing 
smack  ? 

Philip.  —  Hang  the  fishing  smack  !  Won't  you 
be  kind  once  ? 

Kate  (opening  those  eyes)  —  Kind  ?  how  ? 

Pliilip.  —  By  being  serious  with  me. 

Kate.  — Nonsense;  don't  bother  me.  I  declare 
that's  a  fishing  boat. 

Philip.  —  Miss  Kate  Brandon  ! 

Kate.  —  Mr.  Philip  Winter  ! 

Philip.  —  Kate,  I'm  going  back  to  New  York. 

Kate  (dryly)  —  Good-by  ! 

Philip.  —  How  you  torment  me!  Was  there 
ever  such  a  Kate  ?  Yes,  one  other,  Petruchio's. 
She  got  tame,  at  last.  But  I  know  you  love  me. 
Haven't  you  told  me  so  ?  Did  you  not  rest  your 
lips,  once,  for  a  blissful  half  moment,  on  my  fore 
head  ! 

Kate  (trying  to  remember.)  —  I  really  forget. 
It  must  have  been  last  week.  (  With  sudden  con 
viction.)  Now,  wasn't  it  last  week  ? 

Pfiilip.  (wanting  to  eat  her.)  —  I  shall  go  quite 


182  Sketch-Book. 

mad  some  day !  Come,  Kate,  be  good ;  and  let 
me  kiss  the  cruelty  from  those 

Here  the  voices  melted  away,  Miss  Kate's  rimsi- 
<*al  laugh  sounded  a  fairy  chime,  now  and  then, 
laintly  in  the  distance. 

I  immediately  made  up  my  mind  with  regard  to 
the  ultimate  destiny  of  that  precious  pair.  Youth 
and  beauty,  and  the  currency  of  the  realm  —  what 
could  be  pleasanter  ? 

Three  nights  after  this  gay  glimpse  into  the  af 
fairs  of  Miss  Kate  and  her  special  pleader,  I  was 
the  luckless  witness  of  another  interview  of  a  dif 
ferent  character,  which  was  instrumental  in  forc 
ing  upon  my  understanding  the  baseness  and  du 
plicity  of  the  human  race. 

The  room  I  tenanted  was  in  an  L  of  the  hotel, 
and  my  one  window,  with  its  twelve  square  eyes, 
looked  plump  into  Miss  Hepzibah's  front  garden, 
with  the  intention,  I  think,  of  staring  Miss  Hepzi 
bah's  Gothic  cottage  out  of  countenance. 

It  must  have  been  sometime  near  midnight. 
The  intolerable  heat  had  driven  me  to  the  open 


Miss  Hepzibalrs  Lover,  183 

window,  where  I  filled  a  pipe  with  Latakia,  and 
blew  rings  of  smoke  out  into  the  moonlight.  I 
was  engaged  in  this  intellectual  enjoyment  when  I 
heard  Miss  Hepzibah's  cane  rocking-chair  creaking 
on  the  porch  opposite.  There,  in  the  silvery  shad 
ow,  sat  Miss  Hepzibah,  like  a  festive  old  appari 
tion,  bobbing  to  and  fro,  and  cooling  herself  with 
a  large  palm-leaf  fan. 

At  that  moment  I  saw  Mr.  Philip  Winter  walk 
ing  somewhat  stiffly  down  the  road.  He  paused 
at  the  gate,  it  grated  on  its  hinges,  and  the  young 
gentleman,  passing  through  the  arbor,  stood  before 
Miss  Hepzibah.  And  this  is  what  I  saw  and 
heard. 

Miss  Hepzibah  gives  a  little  scream. 

Mr.  Winter  speaks  to  her  in  low  musical  tones. 

Miss  Hepzibah  listens  to  the  same. 

Mr.  Winter  takes  her  hand  with  an  air  of  infi 
nite  tenderness. 

Miss  Hepzibah  smirks. 

Mr.  Winter  raises  the  hand  to  his  lips. 

Miss  Hepzibah  purrs. 


184  Sketch-Book. 

Mr.  Winter  whispers  something  in  her  ear,  and 
then  walks  leisurely  through  the  grape-arbor  out 
into  the  road,  Miss  Hepzibah  looking  after  him, 
fondly,  like  a  Maltese  cat. 

Could  I  believe  my  eyes !  I  pinched  myself, 
and  said  the  multiplication-table  (as  far  as  I 
knew,)  backwards  and  forwards :  then  tumbled 
into  bed,  thinking  how  the  light-hearted  and  bonny 
Kate  was  dreaming  a  dream  that  would  end  in  bit 
ter  tears ;  and  shaking  my  fist  at  the  old  wretch  in 
the  Gothic  cottage,  I  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  the  anger  flew  into  my  fin 
gers'  ends  at  beholding  Miss  Brandon  leaning  cozi- 
ly  on  Philip  Winter's  arm,  and  caressing  him  with 
her  large  brown  eyes. 

O  «/ 

As  the  pair  walked  up  from  the  beach,  they  met 
Miss  Hepzibah,  robed  in  ridiculous  splendor. 

I  watched  the  encounter  without  drawing  a 
breath. 

Miss  Brandon  was  making  a  bracelet  of  sea-kelp, 
and  did  not  observe  'her  rival :  Miss  Hepzibah  gave 
a  galvanic  start ;  and  Philip  Winter  lounged  by 


Miss  Hepzibairs  Lover,  185 

her  unconcernedly,  as  if  she  were  a  part  of  the 
landscape. 

I  never  saw  anything  more  neatly  done. 

That  night  the  same  pantomine  and  whispers 
were  repeated  on  Miss  Hepzibah's  piazza,  Miss 
Hepzibah  seeming  even  more  pleased  than  pre 
viously  with  Mr.  Winter's  dramatic  adoration. 

Now  heaven  knows  that,  though  I  seldom  mind 
my  own  business,  I  never  meddle  with  any  body 
else's.  But  here  was  an  aggravated  case. 

I  took  Mr.  Brandon  by  the  button  hole  one 
afternoon,  and  disclosed  to  him  the  perfidy  of  his 
intended  son-in-law. 

I  never  did  a  more  injudicious  thing. 

When  I  had  concluded,  Mr.  Brandon  bowed 
icily,  and  informed  me  that  what  I  had  told  him 
was  simply  impossible  ;  Mr.  Philip  Winter  was  the 
son  of  his  dearest  friend,  a  friend  of  forty  years' 
standing;  he  loved  Philip  himself  as  if  he  wer< 
his  own  son ;  and  then  intimated  the  pain  it 
gave  him  (Mr.  Brandon)  to  see  a  young  man 
(obliquely  me)  dulling  his  faculties  and  blighting 


188  Sketch-Book, 

his  prospects  in  life,  by  a  too  devoted  adherence  to 
Still  Catawba,  and  other  spiritous  liquors. 

Miss  Brandon,  with  a  priceless  tear  hesitating  on 
either  eyelash,  hinted  with  charming  candor  that 
there  was,  of  course,  one  liar  in  the  world  who 
was  greater  than  any  other  liar,  and  that  that  par 
ticular  liar  was  at  present  an  occupant  of  No.  97, 
—  my  apartment. 

Mr.  Philip  Winter,  after  denying  point-blank, 
that  he  had  ever  laid  eyes  on  Miss  Hepzibah,  as 
sured  me  confidentially  that  if  I  and  my  traps  (he 
alluded  to  my  trunks)  were  not  out  of  the  Atlan 
tic  House  within  the  brief  space  of  two  days,  he 
should  take  the  liberty  of  pulling  somebody's  ears 
in  a  manner  more  violent  than  might,  perhaps,  be 
agreeable. 

I  was  wild  with  mortification. 

I  thought  of  appealing  to  Miss  Hepzibah  herself; 
but  Miss  Hepzibah  was  evidently  Mr.  Winter's  ac- 
accomplice  ;  I  could  hope  for  no  justice  in  that 
quarter. 

Here,  through  mere  kindliness  of  heart,  I  had 


Miss  Hepzibah's  Lover,  187 

placed  myself  in  an  unamiable  light,  and  probably 
inaugurated  a  deadly  quarrel  with  a  reckless  man 
of  the  world. 

I  sat  in  my  chamber,  the  victim  of  the  darkest 
melancholy.  My  pipe  went  out,,  and  the  moon 
wrapped  itself  up  in  a  cloud.  Everybody  had 
gone  to  bed,  the  house  was  as  silent  as  a  tomb,  and 
and  there  I  sat,  face  to  face  with  my  own  dark 
thoughts. 

I  began  to  imagine  that  may  be  I  was  insane ; 
that  the  midnight  interview  on  the  porch,  the 
whisper,  the  kiss,  Miss  Hepzibah,  and  everything 
else,  were  only  the  vagaries  of  a  disordered  intel 
lect. 

Presently  —  as  I  sat  there,  falling  out  of  one 
depth  of  gloom  into  another  —  I  heard  Miss  Hep- 
zibah's  garden  gate  creak  cautiously.  I  stole  to 
the  window,  hardly  daring  to  hope  what  I  hoped. 

I  gave  but  one  glance,  and  then  rushed  to  Mr. 
Brandon's  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall. 
I  seized  that  gentleman  half  asleep,  and  dragged 
him  to  my  window. 


188  Sketch-Book. 

Mr.  Philip  Winter  was  kneeling  gracefully  at 
Miss  IJepzibah's  feet,  in  the  act  of  kissing  her 
very  venerable  right  hand. 

There  they  were  in  the  damaging  white  moon 
light,  n 

"  Now  sir,"  I  whispered,  tremulous  with  tri 
umph,  "  there  's  some  still  and  very  sly  Catawba 
for  you !  " 

I  considered  that  a  neat  thing  at  the  time. 

There  was  not  a  drop  of  blood  in  Mr.  Bran 
don's  face  as  he  rested  his  hands  on  the  window- 
sill,  with  two  fierce  hazel  eyes  fixed  upon  Miss 
Hepzibah  and  her  lover. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  in  a  fearfully  calm  voice,  wheel 
ing  round  on  one  heel,  "  allow  me  to  bring  a  wit 
ness  to  this." 

"Certainly." 

He  left  the  room  and  presently  returned,  accom 
panied  by  an  elderly  gentleman,  an  aged  fac  simile 
of  young  Winter.  I  remembered  being  struck  by 
the  likeness,  when  he  alighted  from  the  stage-coach 
that  evening. 


Miss  flepzibak's  Lurer,  189 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Brandon  in  the  same  unnatu 
rally  calm  voice,  "  this  is  Mr.  Joseph  Winter.  I 
wish  to  call  his  attention  to  those  two  persons  on 
the  porch." 

With  this  he  pushed  the  elderly  gentleman  to 
the  window. 

Mr.  Winter  somewhat  perplexed,  looked,  started, 
and  finally  rubbed  his  nose  with  an  impatient  fore 
finger. 

"  Why,"  he  cried,  "  that's  my  Phil !  Gracious 
me !  what  is  the  boy  doing  ?  What,  kissin  — 
good  Lord,  Phil  is  in  one  of  his  walking-fits  ! 
He's  subject  to  spells  of  somnambulism,  you  know, 
and  goes  walking  about  on  ridge-poles  and  mill- 
wheels,  and  things  like  that  fool-woman  in  the 

o 

opera.     "You    Phil!"    thundered   Mr.    Winter. 
"You  Phil!" 

I  heard  Miss  Hepzibah  give  a  scream  like  the 
-hrill  whistle  of  a  steam  engine.  It  broke  the 
charm  of  young  Winter's  slumber.  He  stood,  be 
wildered,  leaning  against  the  garden-gate,  while 


190  Sketch-Book. 

liis  father  from  my  window  above  was  affectionately 
inquiring  of  him  if  he  intended  to  be  a  born  fool 
all  the  days  of  his  life. 

As  to  myself,  my  existence  became  a  burden  to 
me. 

"  I'm  sure  "  said  bonny  Kate,  the  next  morning, 
one  cheek  burning  like  the  under  side  of  a  peony 
petal,  "  I'm  sure  I  can't  think  of  marrying  a  man 
who  doesn't  know  when  he's  asleep  !  " 

But  she  did,  nevertheless  ;  for  the  following  au 
tumn,  in  the  small  whitewashed  church  that  sanc 
tifies  the  primeval  village  of  Rye,  I  heard  these 
two  people  say  the  life-long  words  together.  I 
then  and  there  forgave  Miss  Kate's  allusion  to 
No.  97,  and  promised  to  wear  her  name  like  a 
rose  in  my  memory,  holding  myself  fortunate 
moreover,  in  having  a  loyal  friend  in  Miss  Hepzi- 
bah's  lover. 

As  to  Miss  Hepzibah  herself,  she  is,  I  believe, 
still  open  to  sealed  proposals.  Here's  a  chance  for 
you,  young  gentlemen  !  It  would  compensate  a 


Miss  Hepzibah's  Lover,  191 

« 

man  for  many  of  the  petty  miseries  of  life  to  hear 
her  talk  about  Philip  Winter. 

She  thinks  he  was  not  so  fast  asleep  as  he  ap 
peared  to  be ! 


192  Sketch-Book, 


THE  LADY  WITH  THE  BALMORAL. 
The  Impressible  Man's  Story. 

F  you  will,  for  the  sake  of  drama 
tic  propriety,  imagine  that  I  am  not 
myself,  but  my  friend  Mr.  Tibbs,  I 
[will  tell  you  his  story  precisely  as 
'that  facetious  gentleman  related  it 
to  me.    Mr.  Tibbs  began  and  went 
on  as  follows. 
"  By   Jove ! "    cried   Mr.    Frederick   Markem, 
throwing  back  my  chamber  door  with  such  violence 
that  the  knob  went  into  the  wall  about  two  inches. 
I  immediately  upset  my  inkstand,  for  I  am  a  ner 
vous  man.     The  least  noise  startles  me. 


The  Lady  with  the  Balmoral,         193 

"  O  by  Jove !  "  continued  Mr.  Markem,  stretch 
ing  himself  out  in  the  arm-chair. 

"Jove,"  I  remarked,  "was  a  very  estimable 
person,  in  his  way." 

"  I  have  seen  women,"  said  Mr.  Markem,  quiet 
ly  ignoring  me,  "  I  should  think  I  had ;  handsome 
women,  too,  by  the  streetful ;  but  never  in  my 
life  did  I  ever  lay  eyes  on  such  a  glorious,  superb, 
magnificent,  divine  out-and-out  ring-tailed  snorter, 
if  I  may  be  permitted  to  use  the  expression." 

I  objected.  I  did  not  consider  "  ring-tailed 
snorter,"  whatever  it  might  be,  the  proper  phrase 
under  the  circumstances  ;  I  did  not  know  what 
the  circumstances  were ;  it  did  not  make  any  dif 
ference  what  they  were  —there  could  be  no  cir 
cumstances  that  would  sanction  such  infelicity  of 
language.  No,  I  objected. 

Still  Mr.  Markem  went  on  in  an  extravagant 
manner,  describing  a  lady  whom  he  had  met  some 
twenty  minutes  previously  on  the  corner  of  Broad 
way  and  Thirteenth  street. 

Juno,  Hebe  and  Eurydice  (so  far  as  Mr.  Mark- 


194  Sketch-Book. 

em  knew  them  through  Keightley's  Mythology,) 
paled  their  ineffectual  fires  beside  this  later-day  di 
vinity  ;  and,  as  to  the  Venus  de  Medici  —  I  quote 
Mr.  Markem —  she  knocked  her  higher  than  a 
kite! 

I  myself  am  not  aware  of  the  height  which 
kites  are  popularly  supposed  to  attain  ;  but,  accept 
ing  his  rodomontade  at  its  proper  value,  I  pictur 
ed  in  my  mind's  eye  the  airy  situation  of  the  Ve 
nus  de  Medici,  and  made  no  comment. 

The  lady  whose  beauty  had  robbed  Mr.  Markem 
of  what  nature  had  not  lavishly  endowed  him 
with,  had,  it  seems  rendered  his  destruction  com 
plete  by  sporting  a  red-and-black  balmoral  skirt, 
conveniently  short  enough  to  make  a  modest  dis 
play  of  the  prettiest  feet  and  ankles  in  the  world. 

"  You  should  have  seen  those  feet,"  said  Mr. 
Markem. 

Mr.  Markem  then  launched  into  a  dissertation 
on  pedal  extremities,  drawing  a  comparison  be 
tween  the  feet  of  a  Hong-kong  belle  and  those 
of  the  unknown,  much  in  the  manner  of  the  cele- 


The  Lady  with  the  Balmoral,        195 

brated  comparison  between  Pope  and  Diyden. 
Thus : 

If  the  foot  of  Tai-ping-wang  was  small,  that  of 
the  unknown  was  diminutive :  if  one  was  arched 
like  an  eyebrow,  the  other  was  bent  like  a  crescent ; 
one  was  faultless  and  the  other  perfection. 

I  was  vastly  relieved  when  Mr.  Markem  at  length 
retired  to  his  own  room  to  drown  his  restless  soul, 
as  he  intimated,  in  the  intoxicating  bowl.  The  in 
ebriating  vessel  so  tragically  alluded  to  was  the 
bowl  of  his  meerschaum  pipe.  In  a  few  minutes 
such  volumes  of  smoke  came  pouring  through  the 
key -hole  of  the  door  which  separated  our  apart 
ments  that  I  rushed  frantically  into  his  chamber 
with  the  vague  apprehension  of  finding  him  a  mass 
of  fire  and  cinder,  bearing  no  distant  resemblance 
to  a  half-consumed  balmoral. 

"  Pleasant,  this  !  "  said  Mr.  Markem,  emitting 
from  his  mouth  a  cloud  of  smoke  that  would  have 
done  infinite  credit  to*  a  moderately  ambitious  cra 
ter.  "  It  eases  the  soul  so !  " 

I  am  an  impressible  man  —  nervous  men  always 


196  Sketch-Book. 

are ;  and  although  Mr.  Markem's  description  of 
the  fair  one  with  the  golden  locks  was  entirely  toe 
preposterous  for  a  moment's  thought,  I  lay  wide 
awake  half  the  night  thinking  about  it.  Then  I 
sunk  into  a  troubled  sleep,  only  to  dream  that  I 
and  the  lady  with  the  balmoral  were  being  smoked 
in  an  immense  meerschaum  pipe  by  a  gigantic  Mr. 
Markem. 

To  disport  with  such  trifles  will  the  most  vigorous 
minds  sometimes  condescend ! 

The  next  day,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  thought  of 
Mr.  Markem's  adventure  —  if  it  is  an  adventure 
to  meet  a  pretty  woman.  In  fact,  I  did  nothing 
but  think  of  her  and  the  tortuous  dream  of  the 
previous  night.  The  hot  aromatic  meerschaum, 
the  lady  with  the  balmoral,  and  the  brobdignagic 
Mr.  Markem,  flitted  through  my  vision  all  day ; 
and  in  the  evening  when  I  went  to  see  Clementina 
—  we  had  been  engaged  two  weeks  —  I  was  medi 
tative  and  unhappy. 

I  felt  that  I  was  wronging  Clementina. 

Two  days  after  this  Mr.  Markem  again   rushed 


The  Lady  with  the  Balmoral,          197 

into  my  room.  He  had  seen  her  —  had  ridden  in 
the  same  stage  with  her  —  her  dress  had  brushed 
against  him  —  her  dress  !  Eastern  perfumes  had 
saluted  his  nostrils  —  the  perfumes  she  used  !  He 
had  touched  her  exquisite  finger-tips  in  passing  the 
change;  and  language  was  as  milk-and-water  to 
express  his  emotions.  The  Venus  de  Medici  was 
again  placed  in  an  elevated  position ;  and  several 
uncomplimentary  remarks  made  relative  to  Mes- 
dames  Juno,  Hebe,  and  Eurydice. 

"  By  Jove,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Markem,  "  see  what 
I  have  done  !  " 

And  he  jerked  his  watch  out  so  violently  that  I 
expcted  to  see  the  brass  brains  of  that  domestic 
animal  scattered  over  the  floor. 

"  By  Jove,  Sir !  when  she  passed  me  her  fare, 
two  three-cent  pieces,  what  did  I  do  with  'urn  but 
drop  'em  into  my  vest  pocket,  and  hand  the  whip 
two  gold  dollars  instead,  by  Jove !  Look  at 
'em !  " 

And  Mr.  Markem  opened  the  watch-case  and 
spilled  the  two  bits  of  silver  into  the  palm  of  hii 


198  Sketch-Bock. 

hand.  Mere  money  —  mere  gold  dollars,  piled  up 
as  high  as  the  top  of  Trinity  steeple  —  could  not 
buy  those  sacred  souvenirs.  No,  Sir  !  He  would 
have  'em  put  on  a  silk  cord,  and  his  children,  in 
future  generations,  should  wear  'em  around  their 
necks,  and  cut  their  teeth  on  'em,  by  Jove  !  Part 
with  them  !  Would  I  accept  his  heart's  blood  as  a 
slight  testimonial  of  his  affectionate  regards  ? 

With  this  friendly  offer  Mr.  Markem  shut  up  the 
three-cent  pieces  in  his  watch,  and  restored  it  £o  his 
pocket. 

"  When  the  lady  got  out,"  said  I,  hesitatingly, 
u  did  you  follow  her  ?  " 

"  Follow  her  ?  No,  Sir  !  Could  I  imagine  for 
an  instant  that  so  ineffable  a  creature  resided  any 
where  ?  She's  an  inhabitant  of  the  air  —  a  denizen 
of  the  milky-way  !  Follow  her  ?  I  was  entranc 
ed  —  petrified  —  knocked  higher  than,  a  kite  !  " 

I  could  not  help  asking  Mr.  Markem  if  he  met 
the  Venus  de  Medici  coming  down  on  his  way  up  ? 
But  this  show  of  pleasantry  on  my  part  was  the 
merest  counterfeit  of  jocularity. 


The  Laclv  with  the  Balmoral,        189 

The  second  meeting,  and  Mr.  Markem's  conse 
quent  enthusiasm,  worked  like  madness  in  my  brain 
I  went  to  bed  to  lie  awake  for  hours ;  and  on  fall 
ing  asleep  to  dream  that  I  was  crashed  to  death  b\ 
an  avalanche  of  three-cent  pieces   which  slid  from 
the  roof  of  a  palatial  mansion  in  Fifth  Avenue. 

Then  I  was  cast,  heels  over  head,  on  an  un 
inhabited  South  Sea  island,  where  the  bananas  and 
cocoa-nuts  were  stuffed  with  the  same  scarce  metal ; 
and,  being  on  the  verge  of  starvation,  I  devoured 
a  large  quantity,  and  was  about  to  die  of  indiges 
tion  when  the  breakfast-bell  rescued  me  from  that 
unpleasant  alternative. 

I  was  miserable  and  feverish,  and  a  cup  of  strong 
coffee  at  breakfast  only  made  me  more  feverish 
and  more  miserable. 

I  felt  that  I  was  doing  Clementina  an  egregious 
wrong  by  continuing  our  present  relations  ;  she 
had  ceased  to  hold  that  place  in  my  heart  which 
only  Mrs.  Tibbs  elect  should  occupy,  and  I  had 
ceased  to  give  her  that  constant  adoration  which 
only  Mrs.  Tibbs  elect  should  receive.  I  determin- 


200  Sketch-Book. 

ed  to  see  her  once  more,  and  break  the  painful  in 
telligence  to  her  as  gently  as  possible.  I  dreaded 
the  interview,  for,  as  I  have  remarked  I  am  a 
nervous  man,  and  I  hate  scenes.  But  it  was  an 
imperative  duty. 

Still,  I  delayed  the  heart-rending  moment ;  and 
every  evening  found  me  sitting  with  Clementina, 
who  was  all  modesty  and  fondness,  and  gave  me 
such  intoxicating  little  kisses  in  the  library  that,  at 
times,  I  was  not  quite  so  certain  that  I  did  not  love 
her. 

Indeed  I  did,  while  I  was  with  her ;  but  when  I 
returned  to  my  room,  and  was  no  longer  in  the 
entrancing  atmosphere  which  always  surrounds  a 
refined  woman,  I  felt  that  we  could  never  be  happy 
together. 

Clementina,  I  argued,  is  not  so  very  superior  to 
fifty  other  ladies  of  my  acquaintance.  It  is  tru«^ 
she  has  beautiful  hair,  fine  eyes  and  teeth,  a  stylish 
figure,  and  a  voice  like  Cordelia's, 

"  ever  soft, 

Gentle,  and  low  :  an  excellent  thing  in  woman  !  " 


The  Lady  with  the  Balmoral,        201 

She  is  bright,  too,  and  can  shoot  off  a  repartee  that 
snaps  like  an  enthusiastic  fire-craker.  But  then 
these  qualities  are  not  peculiar  to  Clementina. 
There  is  the  sarcastic  Miss  Badinage,  and  the 
fascinating  Miss  Bonton. 

To  be  honest,  I  was  trying  to  convince  myself 
that  I  wasn't  a  knave.  But  I  was. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Markem  had  twice  seen 
the  ineffable  creature  of  the  milky-way  —  once  on 
the  street,  and  once  taking  lunch  at  Thompson's. 

I  do  not  dare  to  remember  how  wretched  I  was. 
I  gave  my  best  razors  to  our  old  book-keeper  at  the 
office,  and  never  ventured  to  trust  myself  within 
two  blocks  of  the  North  River.  I  was  irrevocably 
in  lov£  with  Mr.  Markem's  sweet  stranger ;  and 
Clementina 

I  nerved  myself  for  a  final  interview  with  my 
victim.  One  afternoon,  in  calm  despair,  I  dressed 
myself  for  that  purpose.  I  had  brushed  my  hat 
for  the  four  hundred  and  seventh  time,  growing 
calmer  and  more  despairing  at  each  stroke,  when 
Mr.  Markem  sailed  into  my  room. 


Sketch-Book. 


I  am  aware  that  "  sailed  "  is  not  a  happy  expres 
sion,  but  no  other  word  will  describe  the  easy, 
swan-like  grace  with  which  Mr.  Markem  entered 
my  apartment.  He  was  gotten  up  without  any 
regard  to  expanse.  Lord  Dundreary  was  never 
so  nobbily  gante*.  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  Mr.  Markem. 

He  was  going  to  air  his  magnificence  on  Broad 
way,  with  the  hope  of  meeting  the  ineffable. 

"  TibJbs,"  said  Mr.  Markem,  familiarly,  "  be 
hold  !  —  "  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of 
form.'  By  Jove  !  if  this  sort  of  thing  doesn't  take 
her  !  " 

"  By-the-by,  Markem,  I  am  going  down  Broad 
way.  I'll  walk  a  block  or  so  with  you." 

Mr.  Markem  hesitated. 

"  O  you  are  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  By  Jove  !  now,  I  don't  know  about  that.  FDI 
a  trifle  tender  on  this  subject  —  tender  for  you  also. 
If  you  should  see  her  and  become  unhappy,  it 
would  be  no  use  for  you  to  —  to  —  " 


The  Ladv  with  the  Balmoral,          20-3 

And  Mr.  Markem  picked  out  the  ends  of  his 
cherry-colored  neck-ribbon  with  a  noli-me-tangere 
air  quite  delightful. 

"  Oh  !  of  course  not,"  said  I. 

"Honest?" 

"  Honest." 

"  Then,  by  Jove !  I'll  trust  you.  But,  honor 
bright,  Tibbs  !  honor  bright !  " 

\Ve  sauntered  out  of  Clinton  place  into  Broad 
way. 

I  was  very  ill  at  ease,  not  only  from  the  fact  of 
walking  with  so  gorgeous  a  perso.n,  but  at  the 
thought  of  meeting  that  woman,  the  mere  descrip 
tion  of  whose  exceeding  loveliness  had  filled  my 
brain  with  visions  like  so  much  hasheesh.  I  was, 
moreover,  somewhat  ashamed  of  myself  for  hav 
ing  taken  advantage  of  Mr.  Markem's  confiding 
nature;  and  could  not  wring  the  smallest  drop  of 
consolation  from  the  accepted  assertion  that  all  is 
fair  in  war  and  love. 

It  was  rather  too  early  in  tho  afternoon,  as  Mr. 
Markem  poetically  remarked,  for  the  flowers  of 


Sketch-Book. 


beauty  to  blossom  in  the  garden  of  fashion  ;  so  we 
dropped  into  Delmonico's,  to  flirt  with  a  thimble 
ful  of  Maderia  and  eat  an  omelette  souflee,  which, 
to  my  idea,  is  nothing  but  a  heavenly  kind  of  soap 
suds. 

When  we  again  sallied  forth  the  fashionable  side 
of  Broadway  was  a  perfect  parterre  of  human  lil 
ies  and  roses.  We  walked  slowly  up  town,  look 
ing  earnestly  among  the  eddying  throng,  for  that 
divine  perfection  of  a  woman  who  had  uncon 
sciously  made  me  the  most  miserable  of  men. 

We  had  reached  Bleecker  street. 

An  omnibus  on  the  crossing  and  an  apple-stand 
on  the  corner  hemmed  us  in. 

Mr.  Markem  suddenly  grasped  my  arm. 

"  There  !  there  she  is  !  "  he  whispered. 

"Where?" 

"  There  !  " 

"  I  dont  see  her." 

"Why  there,  Tibbs." 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  with  bitter  disappointment,  "  that 
is  only  Miss  Bonton  !  " 


The  Lady  with  the  Balmoral,        205 

"  No,  no  —  not  she,  but  the  one  behind  her  on 
the  crossing  —  the  lady  with  the  balmoral !  " 

"  Why,  you  villain !  "  I  shrieked,  "  that's  my 
Clementina !  " 

At  the  same  time  I  gracefully  upset  the  apple- 
stand. 

Mr.  Frederick  Markem  drew  his  hat  over  his 
brows  and  rushed  down  Bleecker  street. 

That  evening  he  and  his  Coblentz  pipes,  his 
French  lithographs,  and  his  Florentine  vases  dis 
appeared  abruptly  in  a  hackney-coach,  in  search 
of  a  new  boarding-place. 

Clementina  —  now  the  blossoming  Mrs.  Tibbs 
—  leans  over  my  shoulder,  and  protests  against  my 
airing  all  this  nonsense  about  "  that  odious  Mr. 
Markem ;  "  but  I  have  promised  the  article  for  the 
.^Esthetic  Monthly,  and  I  am  going  to  print  it,  in 
spite  of  the  Lady  with  th^Balmoral. 


»06 


Sketch-Book, 


THE  CUP  AND  THE  LIP. 

A  Christmas  Story. 

r?</  ONG  before  General  Washington 
l.^';  snubbed  a  senile  king,  and  set  up 
^  a  coat-of-arms  on  his  own  account, 
'there  stood  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Piscataqua  river,  a  large  square 
wooden  building,  that  seemed  se 
riously  proud  of  having  violated 
every  known  rule  of  architecture. 
It  being  just  the  sort  of  structure  that  would  not 
admit  of  a  cupola,  it  ported  a  very  massive  one, 
from  which  might  have  been  seen  the  garrison- 
house  at  Portsmouth,  and  beyond,  the  white  caps 
of  the  Atlantic,  breaking  in  silver  and  azure  on 
Newcastle  Light. 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip,  207 

Something  like  two  hundred  years  ago,  there 
dwelt  between  the  walls  of  this  eccentric  habita 
tion  the  following  more  or  less  interesting  person 
ages. 

Mr.  Jeffrey  Langdon  (the  Heavy  Father  of  our 
drama.) 

Mrs.  Mehitable  Langdon  (the  Mercenary  Moth 
er.) 

And  Miss  Gervase  Langdon  (the  Heroine  com 
ing  to  grief.) 

Mr.  Langdon  had  once  been  a  man  of  great 
wealth  ;  but  a  series  of  disasters,  including  a  scalp 
ing  frolic  on  the  part  of  the  neighboring  "Wompon- 
sags,  a  playful  tribe,  had  reduced  his  fortune  to 
about  forty  acres  of  good  land,  the  Langdon 
mansion,  and  the  Langdon  family.  In  the  last 
was  his  greatest  wealth  —  Gervase  Langdon. 

I  shall  spare  her  the  martyrdom  of  heroines. 
I  shall  not  describe  her.  Never,  since  gentlemen 
were  invented  ;  never,  since  the  first  author  wet  the 
first  goosequill  in  the  first  ink-horn,  preparatory  to 
dashing  oft'  his  first  chapter,  was  there  ever  a  he- 


208  Sketch-Book. 

roine  so  hard  to  describe  as  this  same  Gervase.  I 
might,,  indeed,  tell  you  something  about  the  trim 
mest  figure,  and  the  sauciest  blue  eyes,  that  ever 
fell  to  the  lot  of  a  Puritan  maiden  ;  but  then  you 
would  have  no  more  idea  of  her  than  if  I  had 
done  her  in  wax. 

The  lads  of  the  village  were  distracted  about 
Gervase ;  the  old  men  looked  at  her  sunny  face, 
and  immediately  remembered  their  courting-days  ; 
and  even  her  rivals  forgave  her  beauty,  she  was 
such  a,  warm-hearted  little  buccaneer. 

It  would  take  me  all  day  to  draw  up  merely  a 
list  of  the  hearts  which  this  playful  Lamb  split  in 
two,  at  divers  times,  from  the  moment  she  put  on 
long  dresses  until  her  seventeenth  year.  So  I 
shall  not  do  it.  But  at  last  Gervase  herself  came 
to  grief,  and  it  is  at  this  momentous  epoch  that  our 
curtain  rises. 

It  was  snowing,  as  it  can  snow  only  in  New  En 
gland.  Great  white  feathers  came  floating  down 
from  the  blank  clouds,  darkening  the  whole  atmos 
phere.  Stone-walls,  and  roads,  and  barns,  and  fat 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip.  §09 

comfortable  farmhouses,  appeared  to  sink  gradu 
ally  into  the  earth,  threatening  to  leave  everything 
level. 

At  one  of  the  diamond-shaped  windows  of  the 
Langdon  house,  stood  Gervase,  looking  out  at  the 
snow.  She  was  \veeping  and  trying  not  to  weep. 
The  instant  a  tear  came,  she  brushed  it  aside  with 
a  handkerchief  small  enough  to  be  the  personal 
property  of  a  fairy ;  but  scarcely  was  one  tear 
wiped  away  when  another  sprung  up  to  take  its 
place.  Now,  as  a  general  thing  I  am  not  fond 
of  Niobe.  Women  are  not  pretty  when  they  cry. 
But  please  imagine  Gervase.  Imagine  one  of 
Eytinge's  clear-eyed  women  looking  out  of  a 
Gothic  window  by  Vaux,  upon  one  of  George 
Boughton's  winter  landscapes. 

In  the  same  room  with  Gervase  Langdon  was 
her  mother,  an  oldish  lady  with  sharp  features, 
who  sat  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace,  toasting 
her  feet  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  two  grotesque  an* 
dirons.  While  we  stood  outside,  admiring  the 
troubled  face  at  the  window,  there  had  been  a 


210  Sketch-Book. 

lengthy  and  stormy  conversation  going  on  between 
these  two.  We  are  just  in  time  to  catch  the  last 
of  it. 

Gervase  has  laid  her  hot  cheek  against  the  cool 
window-glass,  over  which  the  frost  has  woven  a 
curtain,  shutting  out  the  bleak  snowscape ;  old 
Mrs.  Langdon  sits  with  her  hands  folded  on  her 
lap.  It  is  truce  between  them. 

Presently  Mrs.  Langdon  looks  up. 

"  Davie  Howe's  grandfather  came  over  in  the 
Mayflower.  A  proper  good  family  is  Davie  Howe's, 
and  very,  very  old." 

"  So  is  he,"  said  the  Lamb  at  the  window. 

There  are  none  so  deaf  as  those  who  won't 
hear. 

"  He  owns  the  new  wheat-houses.  He  is  a  man 
of  mark.  He  is  as  rich  as " 

As  he  can  be,  Mrs.  Langdon  was  going  to  say. 

As  he  is  ugly,  Gervase  was  going  to  say. 

But  neither  finished  the  sentence.  It  was  cut 
short  by  an  interruption,  and  the  interruption  pro 
ceeded  from  Gervase  herself. 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip.  211 

While  Madam  Langdon  was  exploiting  Davie 
Howe's  pedigree,  Gervase  had  been  unconsciously 
tracing  something  on  the  window-pane  with  one 
of  her  taper  fingers.  When  Gervase's  tearful  eyes 
fell  upon  her  handiwork,  she  broke  out  in  a  silvery 
ringing  laugh,  and  pointed  to  the  window. 

"  What's  that,  child  ?  "  cried  Madam  Langdon 
startled. 

"  Only  see  !  "  said  Gervase  laughing  through 
her  tears.  [I  shall  not  afflict  the  reader  with  a 
venerable  allusion  to  April.]  "  Only  see  !  it  is 
for  all  the  world  just  like  it !  " 

"Like  what?" 

And  this  is  what  the  Lamb's  pearl  of  a  nail  had 
traced  in  the  frosty  glass : 


"  Why,  Davie  Howe's  KOSE  ! "  shrieked  Gervase. 
The  enemy  held  up  her  hands  in  horror. 


Sketch-Book, 


At  this  moment  Jeftry  Langdon  come  in  from 
the  barn.  As  he  shook  the  snow  off  his  long 
peruke,  he  looked  at  his  wife,  and  the  following 
silent  diologue  ensued  : 

His  eyes.     Have  you  told  her  ? 

Her  eyes.     Yes. 

His  eyes.     What  does  she  say  ? 

Her  eyes.     No  ! 

This  is  what  was  the  matter. 

Next  to  the  Langdon  estate  was  Squire  Howe's 
farm  —  the  best  tilled  and  most  valuable  tract  of 
land  in  the  township.  This  fact  had  frequently 
impressed  itself  on  old  Langdon's  mind,  but  never 
so  forcibly  as  when  Davie  Howe's  son,  who  had 
Leen  educated  by  his  father's  relatives  in  England, 
returned  to  the  homestead  to  assist  Davie  in  man 
aging  the  establishment,  and  ultimately,  to  be  its 
sole  proprietor.  Mr.  Langdon  looked  at  Gervase, 
and  then  at  Richard  Howe,  and  said, 

"  They  were  made  for  each  other." 

And  when  the  old  gentleman  saw  his  roguish 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip,  213 

daughter  flirting  just  a  little  with  his  rich  neigh 
bor's  son,  his  heart  was  glad  within  him.  But  at 
the  very  moment  when  his  hopes  were  brightest, 
and  his  heart  was  lightest,  an  event  took  place 
which  rather  interfered  with  his  plans. 

Richard  Howe  died. 

Gervase  was  sorry,  as  anybody  is  when  anybody 
dies. 

Then  old  Langdon,  like  the  philosopher  he  was, 
said  to  himself: 

"  If  Gervase  can't  wed  Davie  Howe's  son  — 
and  she  can't,  he  being  dead  —  she  can  wed  Rich 
ard  Howe's  father." 

It  was  a  brilliant  idea. 

But  Gervase  failed  to  see  it. 

In  fact,  at  that  time  Gervase  did  not  see  much 
of  anything,  save  Walter  Brandt.  It  was  not 
quite  plain  to  me  how  this  came  about ;  but  one 
clay  as  young  Brandt  stood  looking  at  her  with  all 
his  eyes,  there  was  a  tumult  among  the  rose-leaves 
on  Gervase's  cheek ;  and  Gervase's  heart  went 
beating  against  Gervase's  corsets  in  a  manner  mar- 


214  Sketch-Book. 

vellous  to  think  of.     It  was  all  over  with  the  Lamb 
as  quick  as  that. 

The  Lamb  flirted  no  more. 

The  village   lads    and  lassies   knew  what   thai 

O 

meant. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  she  did  not  weep 
so  much  for  Richard  Howe  as  she  might  have 
done  under  different  circumstances. 

When  Mr.  Langdon  was  informed  of  these 
things  by  an  observant  neighbor,  that  gentleman 
was  wroth  overmuch. 

"Walter  Brandt,"  he  said,  "hath  not  land 
enough  for  a  crow  to  stand  on.  I'll  hear  no  more 

o 

of  it !  " 

Then  there  was  trouble  in  the  family.  The 
doors  of  the  Langdon  house  were  closed  against 
Walter,  and  the  Buccaneer  was  forbidden  to  hold 
converse  with  the  Outcast. 

"I  cannot  get  rich  here,"  said  Walter  Brandt. 
"  I'll  seek  fortune  elsewhere.     Will  you  be  true  to 
me?     Will  you  marry  me,   if  I  come    back   in 
three  years,  Gervase?  " 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip,  215 

"  Ay,  if  you  come  back  within  fifty  years  !  " 
said  the  brave  hearted  little  Buccaneer. 

So  they  kissed,  and  cried,  and  parted,  as  many 
a  pair  has  done  before  and  since  and  will  again. 

Walter  had  been  gone  over  two  years.  Only 
one  letter  —  which  Gervase  wore  right  next  to  her 
warm  heart  —  was  all  the  tidings  that  had  reached 
her  from  the  wanderer.  In  those  davs,  however, 
people  seldom  got  more  than  three  or  four  letters 
during  their  entire  lives.  She  made  the  most  of 
one,  and  waited  patiently  for  the  happy  day ;  and 
would  not  have  been  inconsolable  if  Davie  Howe's 
name  had  not  become  a  familiar  word  in  her  fami 
ly.  Then  Davie  Howe  himself,  under  favor  of 
Mr.  Langdon's  sanction,  pressed  his  suit  and  made 
himself  very  disagreeable.  In  the  meanwhile 
Gervase  had  been  treated  with  great  tenderness  by 
her  parents,  who  used  all  their  gentle  eloquence  to 
persuade  the  Lamb  to  drink  at  the  same  stream 
with  the  old  wolf.  But  she  wouldn't. 

One  day  things  took  an  unpleasant  color. 

"  Widow  Brandt's  son  is  coming  back  to  the 


216  Sketch-Book. 

settlement,"  said  neighbor  Goodman  to  neighbor 
Langdon. 

Mr.  Langdon  wheeled  about  on  one  heel. 

"  Coming  back  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  d'ye  know  ?  "  he  asked,  sharply. 

"  My  brother  has  writ  it  to  me  from  Holland," 
said  neighbor  Goodman  proudly.  And  he  drew 
out  the  letter. 

"  Have  you  told  this  to  any  one  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  have  this  moment  received  the  docu 
ment." 

"  John,  you  shall  have  that  strip  of  hay-land  at 
your  offer." 

"  Thank  you,  neighbor  Langdon  heartily." 

And  Mr.  Langdon  made  a  feint  of  hurrying  off; 
he  walked  two  paces,  paused,  and  said,  in  a  ner 
vous  manner : 

"  And,  John,  you'll  not  need  to  mention  — 
that  affair  —  the  letter  —  you  know.  And,  John, 
how  long  would  it  take  to  go  to  Holland  ?  " 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip.  217 

He  meant  how  long  would  it  take  to  come  from 
there. 

"  Three  months  or  more,"  said  John. 
Mr.  Lanirdon  went  home. 

O 

"  Gervase  shall  marry  Davie  Howe  this  Christ 
mas,"  said  he. 

"  But  I  wont ! "  said  that  young  lady,  when 
Madam  Langdon  broke  the  subject  to  her ;  and 
then  ensued  that  combat  which  ended  in  headache 
and  inglorious  tears. 

As  the  old  folks  sat  by  the  fire  that  night,  and 
as  the  coffin-like  clock  on  the  staircase  doled  out 
eight,  Mr.  Langdon  started  and  looked  up  at  his 
wife. 

"  Four  years  ago  to-night " 

Then  she  too  remembered. 

Four  years  ago  that  day,  their  son  Will  was  lost 
off  Newcastle  Light.  Four  years  ago  that  night, 
the  waves  threw  his  body,  scornfully,  on  the  rocks . 

It  was  a  sorry  anniversary  for  the  Langdon  fam 
ily. 

Hitherto  Mr.  Langdon  had  tried  by  dint  of  pa- 
10 


Sketeh-Book, 


tient  argument  to  convince  Gervase  that  she  loved 

o 

Davie  Howe  ;  but  when  he  found  that  Walter 
Brandt  would  probably  come  to  the  relief  of  the 
distressed  garrison  before  many  months,  he  changed 
his  tactics.  One  day  he  would  expostulate  with 
her  solemnly,  then  he  would  take  110  notice  of  the 
poor  child  for  a  week.  This  was  hard  to  bear. 
It  was  cruel  not  to  be  spoken  to  ;  it  made  Gervase 
feel  like  a  poor  relation  at  her  father's  table.  But 
even  that  was  not  so  heartbreaking  as  to  have  him 
coax  her,  and  plead  with  his  eyes  —  the  eyes 
which  used  to  look  so  lovingly  on  her.  That  was 
bitter  almonds. 

"  I  wish  I  were  lying  in  the  churchyard  !  "  said 
Gervase  white  as  death. 

"  You  must   marry  Davie   Howe  !  "  cried  Mr. 
Langdon,  out  of  patience. 

In   the   meantime   the   color   went   out   of  her 
cheeks;  her   eyes   wore   a   lack-lustre   look;    sin 
went  about  the  house  like  somebody's   unhappy 
shadow  ;  and  the  lips  that  used  to  bud  and  blossom 
into  laughter,  had  forgotten  how  to  smile.     Heart- 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip,  219 

ache  was  "  the  grim  chamberlain  that  lighted  her 
to  bed." 

Gervase  had  not  a  soul  to  help  her  in  this  une 
qual  bombarding.  Now  and  then  she  scattered 
the  old  people  with  a  gun  loaded  to  the  muzzle 
with  feminine  grape  and  canister,  but  not  often. 
The  enemy  saw  that  she  was  weakened,  and  plied 
their  shot  unmercifully.  Her  guns  hung  fire  now. 
The  small  sarcastic  shells  which  she  threw  at  the 
allies'  outworks  broke  weakly  in  the  air,  and  did 
no  damage.  She  had  parted  company  with  Hope, 
and  the  enemy's  lines  came  down  on  her.  What 
could  Gervase  do  ?  She  tried  to  die  ;  but  I  have 
observed  that  people  never  die  when  they  want  to. 
At  last  she  threw  herself  on  her  mother's  bosom, 
and  said  : 

"  I  dont  care  what  becomes  of  me  —  sell  me  if 
you  will.  But,"  she  added,  with  a  show  of  her 
old  spirit,  "  isn't  there  anybody  who  will  give 
more  for  me  than  Davie  Howe  offers  ?  I  seem  to 
be  going  very  cheap  !  " 

This  rather  dashed  the  old  folks. 


Sketch-Book. 


But  they  sent  for  Davie  Howe.  Davie  Howe 
leered,  and  kissed  her  hand,  and  Gervase  shrunk 
back,  as  if  an  asp  had  stung  her. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  It  was  freezing  cold  ; 
the  snow  had  commenced  falling  shortly  after  twi 
light  ;  flake  after  flake  lighted  on  the  ragged  trees 
and  the  stiff  fences,  like  millions  of  magical  white 
birds. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  There  were  bright 
lights  in  the  Langdon  mansion  ;  the  windows  glared 
out  on  the  darkness  like  great  sinister  eyes  :  Ger 
vase  was  to  be  married. 

The  peparations  for  this  event  were  on  an  ex 
tensive  scale.  There  was  to  be  music  ;  and  young 
ladies  in  powder,  and  crimson  farthingales,  and 
high-heeled  shoes,  were  to  float  languidly  through 
monotonous  minuets  ;  there  was  to  be  a  feast,  and 
a  charade,  and  a  puppet-show,  and  heaven  knows 
what  not. 

The  ceremony  was  to  take  place  at  eight.  At 
seven  o'clock  the  rooms  were  already  crowded. 

Garmented  and  garlanded  for  the  sacrifice,  Ger- 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip.  221 

vase  Langdon  sat  up  stairs  surrounded  by  a  bevy 
of  fair  young  girls,  who,  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives,  did  not  envy  the  belle  of  the  settlement. 
Her  pallid  face  and  faded  lips  told  rather  a  terrible 
story.  But  she  looked  enchantingly,  from  the 
highest  wave  of  her  blonde  tresses  down  to  the 
diamond-studded  buckles  on  the  white  satin  slip 
pers. 

Her  costume,  ladies  ? 

Silk,  and  things. 

As  she  sat  in  the  large,  heavy-carven  oak  chair, 
two  pretty  feet  were  just  visible  underneath  her 
tremendous  hoop  —  two  supple  ankles  crossed  co- 
quettishly.  The  young  men  of  the  village,  passing 
by  the  half-opened  door,  beheld  them,  and  grieved. 

It  was  a  quarter  after  seven,  and  expectation  was 
on  tiptoe  for  the  arrival  of  the  bridegroom. 

For  several  days  prior  to  the  time  appointed  for 
the  ceremony  that  ancient  gentleman,  Davie 
Howe,  was  in  a  fever  with  regard  to  his  bridal 
costume,  which  was  intended  to  go  a  trifle  beyond 
anything  that  had  been  seen  in  the  Colonies. 


m  Sketch-Book, 

It  was  to  be  a  gorgeous  affair,  gotten  up  with 
out  regard  to  expense,  or  anything  else.  The  vil 
lage  under 1  mean  tailor,  sent  it  home  piece 
meal.  First,  the  coat,  blazing  scarlet,  richly  trim 
med  with  gold  braid,  and  faced  with  watered-silk. 
Next,  the  long-waisted  waistcoat  of  maroon  cloth. - 
Then  the  white  silk  hose.  Then  the  faint-blue 
satin  choker. 

But  the  small-clothes,  the  grand,  elaborate,  black 
velvet  knee-breeches,  that  marvel  of  human  art, 
—  there  had  been  some  mistake  in  them. 

First  they  were  too  tight,  and  a  seam  was  let  out. 

Then  they  were  too  large,  and  a  seam  was  tak 
en  in. 

And  then  they  didn't  fit  at  all. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  happy  day  had  dawned, 
and  Davie  Howe's  small-clothes  were  not  finished. 
Twenty  times  that  morning  did  Davie  send  a  mes 
senger  to  the  distracted  artist ;  and  twenty  times 
was  the  messenger  sent  back  with  the  assurance 
that  the  garment  should  be  ready  in  season. 

Six  o'clock  arrived,  and  the  knee-breeches  did 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip,  223 

not.  In  a  fit  of  phrenzy,  Davie  Howe  mounted 
his  horse,  and  dashed  over  the  glaring  ice  to  the 
village,  three  miles  off,  with  the  unalterable  deter 
mination  to  scalp  the  luckless  tailor. 

Half-past  seven  came,  and  the  elder  Langdon 
grew  uneasy.  What  could  have  occurred  ?  And 
then  a  quarter  of  eight  dropped  in  naturally 
enough,  like  a  bore  to  dinner.  The  guests  looked 
perplexed  and  amused  ;  eight  o'clock  struck 
satirically,  and  a  half-suppressed  titter  went  round 
the  room.  There  was  an  awful  pause. 

Mrs.  Langdon  smiled  upon  the  people  in  a  help 
less,  ghastly  manner. 

The  bride's  maids,  up  stairs,  lounged  in  groups, 
whispering :  Gervase  sat  staring  vacantly  at  the 
carpet,  the  fingers  of  one  hand  unconsciously  play 
ing  with  the  carved  oak-leaves  and  acorns  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair. 

A  measured  step  was  heard  on  the  stairway. 
The  women  ceased  whispering,  and  glanced  to 
ward  the  door.  Gervase  lifted  her  eyes. 

Walter  Brandt  stood  looking  at  her. 


Sketch-Book. 


That  this  was  his  ghost,  come  to  reproach  her 
on  her  bridal-night,  was  the  idea  that  flashed 
across  Gervase.  She  shrunk  back  in  the  chair. 

Walter  Brandt  stood  beside  her,  and,  without 
speaking  a  word,  drew  from  his  finger  a  well-worn 
gold  ring,  which  Gervase  had  given  him  three 
years  before.  This  he  dropped  in  her  lap,  and 
walked  wearily  away. 

Then  Gervase  sprung  from  the  chair,  and 
caught  him  in  her  arms,  and  —  I  know  it  was  ter 
ribly  unmaidenly  of  her,  but  she  kissed  him  di 
rectly  on  the  mouth.  \  , 

That  instant,  Miss  Langctan,  down  stairs,  gave 
a  scream. 

"  Davie  Howe  hath  slipped  up  on  the  ice,  and 
broken  his  leg,"  was  the  intelligence  conveyed  to 

Mrs,.  Langdon  from  the  village. 

« 
"  Poor  Gervase  !  "  said  somebody. 

But  there  were  some  ill-natured  persons  there 
who  thought,  may  be,  that  Gervase  would  n't 
weep  herself  to  death. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Langdon,  with  two  or  three  more 


The  Cup  and  the  Lip. 

intimate  guests  hastened  up  stairs  to  break  the 
news  to  the  bride.  They  found  that  bereaved 
young  creature  quietly  leaning  her  head  on  "Wal 
ter  Brandt's  shoulder  ! 

"Monster!  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Langdon. 

Her  meaning  remained  a  profound  mystery. 
Whether  she  alluded  to  Walter,  or  Gervase,  or 
poor  Davie  Howe  himself,  never  transpired. 
"Don't  be  a  fool,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Langdon 
in  persuasive  tones  to  his  wife.  "  It  is  clear  that 
Providence  hath  been  against  us  in  this  matter. 
I  have  nothing  to  say.  The  girl  may  wed  whom 
she  likes." 

I  trust  this  remark  was  disinterested  on  Mr. 
Langdon's  part,  but  suspect  that  neighbor  Good 
man  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

"  He 's  made  a  mint  o'  money,"  remarked  Gtood- 
man,  sotto  voce,  to  Mr.  Langdon. 

There  was  no  wedding  that  night  in  the  Lang 
don  mansion  ;  but  as  there  was  a  bride  waiting,  a 

banquet  spread,  a  charade  to  be  solved,  and  a  min- 
10* 


Sketch-Book, 

uet  to  be  danced,  the  affair  was  not  long  delayed. 
So  was  Davie  Howe  left  out  in  the  cold. 

A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine.  This  is  true  of  wed 
ding  garments  and  all  terrestrial  things. 

It  would  be  an  anachronism  for  me  to  wish  Ger- 
vase  a  merry  Christmas  at  this  late  day ;  for  the 
Lamb  was  taken  tenderly  to  the  fold  ages  and  ages 
ago.  It  would  be  superfluous,  too ;  for  I  believe 
that  Gervase  and  Walter,  and  all  true  lovers  who 
have  died,  are  enjoying  eternal  Christmas,  some 
where. 


THE     END. 


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